


Lights Like Stars

by Sebbybear



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Cinnamon Roll Papyrus, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendzone, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nightmares, PTSD, Plot, Racism, Romantic Tension, Sexual Assault, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, So fluffy it hurts, gratuitous fluff, grillby x original character, sans x reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 120,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9787064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebbybear/pseuds/Sebbybear
Summary: It's been over a year since the Underground opened up and the monsters living under the earth swarmed to the surface in their thousands.  The human and monster governments are taking their sweet time coming to any kind of agreement regarding monster rights and citizenship, but for the most part, in the less politically-active parts of the nation, life continues as it always has.  In your sleepy little town, there are bills to be paid, tables to be waited, and few to no adventures to be found.  So when two skeleton monsters move into the empty house near the café where you work, you welcome the changes they bring with them.You knew if you let them into your life they'd make interesting friends.  What you didn't expect was that getting to know these remarkable strangers would be like coming home.





	1. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you meet the neighbors and receive a nickname.

_ You _

The café is crowded for a Thursday afternoon, but because it’s nearing Christmas, you aren’t as surprised as you could be. The lunch rush is drawing to a close, and your worn sneakers squeak slightly as you cross the linoleum floor balancing a tray of sandwiches on your forearm, bound for a table near the door occupied by yet another set of extended family members who’ve not seen each other since last year and are cheerily catching up on each others’ lives. The jukebox is on its third run-through of Elvis’s “Blue Christmas;” some joker must have punched it in several times, either through ignorance of jukebox operation or with malicious intent. You reach your destination and start passing out plates. Your customers smile and nod as you hand them their orders. One gives you a quiet, “Thanks.” The little boy near the end of the table glances down and says, much more loudly, “Your socks are different colors.”

“Yeah, they are,” you concur wearily. It’s a longer story than you’d like to admit, involving laundry day, a malfunctioning alarm clock, and a drunken roommate who apparently threw up in your clean laundry basket sometime last night. The punchline of the morning’s chaos was a short skirt displaying, for the public’s current enjoyment, one black sock and one white.

You return to the kitchen, grumbling. Roxy steps jauntily up to you, her short blond ringlets bouncing, scrutinizes your face for a moment, and then turns to the small dry erase board hanging on the front of the walk-in freezer. She pops the cap off the marker and, under the heading, “Socks,” makes a tick. That brings your socks comment count up to twelve. You blow out a breath. Roxy giggles.

“People are more observant than I thought,” you admit. “I owe you a root beer float.”

“Not yet,” Roxy chirps. “We’re still waiting for lucky number thirteen.” She draws a circle at the end of the line of black marks, demonstrating the absence of the crucial comment. Roxy has long claimed thirteen as her lucky number, possibly out of pure contrariness. For a walking ray of sunshine, your small friend can be quite hardheaded.

“It’s only lunchtime,” you counter. “At the rate we’re going, it’ll be up to twenty by quitting time.” You’re exaggerating. You’ll be going home before the dinner crowds arrive, so, with lunch out of the way, the bulk of your daily custom has been and gone.

“Mama told me not to count my chickens before they’re covered in ice cream and sunk in soda.”

“Ew.” Roxy can be so odd sometimes. The far-off jingle of the bell hanging over the café’s front door announces a luncheon latecomer, or perhaps a couple coming in for coffee. “Go man the spatula, you weirdo,” you order fondly, heading for the swinging doors to the dining area. Your friend grins brightly at you and flounces off, golden curls bobbing along behind her.

You exit the kitchen just as a loud, clear voice announces, “HELLO, NEW NEIGHBORS! IT IS I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AND ALSO SANS! WE HAVE FINISHED MOVING AND ARE READY TO MAKE OUR FIRST IMPRESSIONS!” You stop in your tracks, stunned by the speaker even more than the speech. The rest of the dining room seems to share your sentiments, all conversation falling immediately silent, all customers staring towards the front door, as wide-eyed as awestruck children.

The speaker is a monster.

You’ve heard of the monsters, of course. It’s been big news all over the world, but particularly in this area, in the few small towns near Mt. Ebott, the monsters’ point of origin. When they first appeared, a new but clearly well-established race that had been living, all unknown, within the nation’s boundaries for millennia, there was an understandable panic among the various branches of government as they attempted to cope with the sudden problems that came with the monsters’ exodus from the Underground. The monsters had their own king, their own laws, and their own social order. Were they a visiting nation, or an invading force, or should they be considered citizens themselves because they were apparently born here? Should they be allowed to stay as guests, integrated into the country, or sent back to the Underground to await immigration cards? What if one of them committed a crime? Who had jurisdiction, and how would the offender be tried? It’s been months since the monsters arrived on the surface, and it seems another ice age might pass before the government decides what to do about them. Luckily, the monsters themselves are few in number, and so far they haven’t committed any crimes and have caused only minimal problems, most of those due to ignorance.

You’ve been dying to meet one.

Your heart speeds up and you can feel a wide smile spreading across your face as you hurry towards the speaker. He (the voice sounds male) is tall, probably closer to seven feet than six, and looks very much like a human skeleton, though his “skull” seems mobile and expressive. He’s wearing a rather silly outfit, possibly some sort of superhero costume, and the cropped top of it displays his bare spine and nothing else: he doesn’t seem to have any organs, only “bone,” or whatever it is he’s made out of. You guess you shouldn’t be too surprised: you’d heard that monsters are made mainly of magic, so their physical forms don’t need to follow the same rules that humans’ and animals’ bodies do.

You realize you’re staring, possibly in a creepy fashion. You flush a little, embarrassed, and meet the speaker’s eyes—or eye sockets, as the case seems to be. He’s smiling at you, maybe a little perplexed by your odd reaction to his presence, but doesn’t seem to be put off. Rather, he’s radiating friendly confidence and a peculiar sort of lively energy, like that of an excitable child. “HELLO!” he repeats, to you personally this time. “I AM PAPYRUS, PUZZLER EXTRAORDINAIRE AND UNPARALLELED SPAGHETTORE. AND THIS IS MY BROTHER, SANS. WE HAVE MOVED INTO THE SMALL EMPTY HOUSE ON DOLLY STREET. WHAT IS YOUR NAME? AND WHERE MAY WE SIT?”

“Anywhere you like,” you reply somewhat distractedly, trying hard to multitask. While Papyrus was speaking, you were studying the small form behind him. This must be Sans. He’s also very skeleton-like, though his face is a tiny bit less like a human skull than his brother’s. Sans’s jaw and skull are all one piece, his cheekbones more rounded than Papyrus’s, and in his overly-large eye sockets glow two bright lights like stars. The way they dart around the room, taking in details with a lively intelligence, makes you think they must function like pupils. The overall impression is less of a skull than of a face that _looks_ like a skull. Sans is very short, certainly no taller than you are, and ridiculously small next to his great lanky brother. He exacerbates his lack of height by slouching with his hands in the pockets of his fluffy blue sherpa hoodie; he’s dressed very differently than his brother as well, though since he’s chosen a hoodie, black basketball shorts, and pink fluffy slippers as his own outfit, you’re not sure “dressed” is the right word.

“THAT IS QUITE A LONG NAME,” Papyrus says, still smiling. “DOES IT HAVE A SHORT FORM?” Sans snickers, and a moment later you realize that Papyrus has mistaken which question your answer belongs to. That, or he’s making fun of you. If he _is_ making fun of you, he’s such a skilled actor that you can’t see beyond his silly, childish persona.

“(Y/N),” you respond, not sure if you should explain the issue or just let it go. “Here, let me show you to a seat.” If you don’t get them to sit down and order soon, your manager might spot you chatting instead of working and get the wrong idea.

“i’m sure it can see us fine from here,” Sans remarks. His voice is surprisingly deep, and smooth as melted butter: a fine bass-baritone, maybe even a true bass. He speaks quietly and pays little attention to diction, though; it’s a voice that’s probably most comfortable as a mumble. Unsure what to make of his comment, you shoot him a curious look. He smirks at you. _Okay, I’m almost sure these guys are making fun of me._

Your certainty fades, though, when Papyrus groans loudly (does he have any volume other than “loud?”) and scolds, “SANS! YOU ARE GOING TO RUIN OUR REPUTATION BEFORE THEY EVEN GET TO KNOW US!”

“sorry, bro, it’s just a little chair-acter flaw of mine. but, hey, maybe they won’t judge us booth on it.” Papyrus makes a frustrated sound, something like, “AWG!” and you try, mostly unsuccessfully, to hold in laughter. They aren’t making fun of you at all. They’re just a little bit… different. The sound of your repressed mirth brings Sans’s gaze to you, and his perpetual smile widens. It seems he likes it when someone appreciates his jokes, and in a spirit of mischief, he continues, “c’mon, paps, don’t be irri-table. these jokes are punderful.” You snort into your hand. Sans gives you a gratified glance, eye-lights bright and full of humor.

“Please stop,” you gasp. “You’re making me look unprofessional.” Sans smiles toothily but takes pity on you, keeping his mouth shut for the moment. A light pink glow tints his cheekbones: he’s blushing a bit. You guess he took your laughter as high praise, because he stands a little straighter as you walk them to a table along the wall, next to a large window.

“WHAT A BEAUTIFUL RESTAURANT!” Papyrus exclaims, so loudly the sound of his voice bounces off the walls. “DO YOU SERVE SPAGHETTI?”

“Uh,” you falter, trying to keep up with Papyrus’s rapidly-changing topics. “We have chili with noodles in it…”

“CHILI WITH NOODLES?” Papyrus echoes with interest.

“yeah, bro, you should try it,” Sans interjects, nudging Papyrus with an elbow. “it’s impastable not to love it. though it’s bean said only the coolest monsters can eat it every day.”

“SANS!” Papyrus scolds. “YOU WERE DOING SO WELL! ALMOST A MINUTE WITHOUT A PUN, AND NOW THIS!”

Sans snickers. So do you. This is better than a stage act.

“I THINK I WILL HAVE THE CHILI WITH NOODLES IN IT, PLEASE,” Papyrus proclaims, doing an excellent job of ignoring your and Sans’s immaturity. “AND I WOULD LIKE TO DRINK WATER WITHOUT THE LITTLE LEMON SLICES IN IT.”

“Sure thing,” you say, not bothering to write it down. You’re sure you’ll remember this encounter long after these two leave the café, chili conversation included. You turn to Sans, trying to ignore the fact that, after all the time you’ve spent with your monster customers, your other occupied tables are getting impatient with you. You glance at the clock. Ten more minutes before Rob gets here. With high-maintenance customers like these two, the extra help with the rest of the room will be a blessing when it finally arrives, even with the creepy looks Rob sometimes gives you. “What would you like?” you prompt Sans, hoping for a real order rather than another joke.

“could I get a burger? and a coke. with lemon. like, lots of lemon. like, at least four lemon slices.”

“In your Coke?” You’ve never had a customer add lemon to their soda before.

“in my coke. oh, and could we get some more ketchup? this bottle’s about empty.”

“It’s almost half-full,” you protest as Sans twists the cap off. Before you’ve said your last word, he’s taken a swig from the bottle as if it were a beer. Your face spasms. “I’ll… get you another bottle,” you say weakly.

“thanks, checkers,” Sans says casually, and then freezes. You freeze, too. It looks like he hadn’t meant to say “Checkers” out loud, but since he has… If you’re not mistaken, that’s the sound of lucky number thirteen whizzing past your ear. You stifle a groan. You now officially owe Roxy a root beer float.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ AUTHOR’S NOTE ~**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> Though the country this story takes place in is very much like the United States, I didn’t want it to be the United States. Just like Mt. Ebott itself, the nation it exists in is imaginary. However, if I slip up you may catch me inserting specifically North American details, for which I apologize.
> 
> You may have noticed that Sans blushes red in this story, not blue. That’s because he bleeds red, and if he bleeds red then he ought to blush red, too. That’s just how things work. :P


	2. Puns Like Pills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which new friends are made, and several people are troubled.

_ Sans _

 

The girl strides back through the swinging doors, and I grumble to myself. Hadn’t meant to call attention to her socks. The way she was standing, shifting her weight and holding one foot behind the other a little, says she’s self-conscious about them. I don’t know what the problem is, honestly. Odd colors is something I’d probably wear, if I ever wore socks. (Socks is something I’d probably wear, if I ever had any clean ones.) But different things bother different people, and though bothering others is often the only thing that gives my life sparkle, I don’t actually want to upset anyone. Should’ve known when I started calling her “Checkers” in my head that it would eventually come out my mouth.

Why am I such an asshole?

Paps has turned in his seat and is trying to chat up the guy behind him. I can tell the fella feels awkward and would rather Paps quit talking to him, but as usual, my brother’s oblivious to all negative aspects of the world.

That’s my side of things.

C’mon, Sans, don’t start. The day’s been good so far. Get off the train, man, before you wreck everything.

I unroll the silverware from its napkin burrito and start fiddling with it. “hey, paps.”

“HI, SANS!” God, he’s so funny and he doesn’t even know it. I wish I could be a little more like him.

“sorry for being so punny. wasn’t very knife of me. you fork-give me?” I can feel my smile widening as Paps’s face goes from cheerful to annoyed. Popping puns like pills is a crude method, but it gives me something concrete to focus on and gets my mind out of the downward spiral that’s been dogging my thoughts the past couple of days. At least, it helps temporarily.

“STOP IT, SANS, YOU’RE EMBARRASSING ME IN FRONT OF MY NEW FRIEND,” Paps says. As soon as he turns to look at me, his “new friend” takes his coffee and moves to a different table. Guess I’m not the only asshole in the room. For a moment I’m irked at the guy, before I decide this is one of those things that’s not worth caring about. Paps wants to make friends so badly. I wish he’d realize he’s already pretty popular, at least in our circles.

Then again, it’s probably time for me to accept that we’re not _in_ our circles anymore. I mean, Tori and Frisk are off with Asgore and the human leaders, hashing out plans for coexistence between our races. They’ve been so busy we haven’t seen them in months. Undyne decided she had to see the ENTIRE SURFACE. Like, as quickly as possible. So she and Alphys spend most of their time traveling. I’m not sure how they get the money for it. I hope Undyne’s not out there shaking down Ukrainian farmers or something. And Mettaton stayed back in the Underground, making his shitty-ass movies for all the monsters that decided to stay in their old homes, in the places that were familiar to them. He’s only about an hour’s drive away. We see him more than we see anyone else, goddamn it. So, okay, he really is a friend, and I acknowledge that he’s got some good qualities. Actually, a lot of good qualities. Doesn’t change the fact that almost everything I’ve ever wanted to say to him has been some version of “Shut the hell up.”

Paps has got it into his head that they’re all going to come to this housewarming party he’s cooked up. He sent them all invitations. With glitter. l’m still digging glitter out of my hoodie pockets, if anyone out there cares. And, well, don’t get me wrong. I love them all to death, I’d love to see them, and I know they’d love to be here to help warm up the house, or what-the-hell-ever. But I can’t see it happening. Their lives are just so much bigger than ours.

Mettaton’ll probably fuckin’ come.

Paps has shifted his attention to the young lady sitting behind me and is, once again, doing his friend-making thing. Sounds like she’s more interested in a conversation with my bro than the first guy, but since she’s on the far side of her booth, facing Paps across two tables, he thinks he’s gotta shout at her to be heard. The whole café is staring at us now; seems we’re trouble no matter where we go. I pull up my hood and hide in it. That’s when Checkers comes back with our drinks.

She’s put six lemon slices around the rim of my glass, bless her. It looks like a bit of a joke on her part (six slices were all that would fit), and she doesn’t seem mad about the socks thing. That’s a relief; it’s been bothering me since she left. Paps smiles at her and gives her a little wave. She smiles brightly and waves back. The water glass she brought him is fogged with condensation. She places it carefully on the table, quickly draws a smiley face on it with a finger, and turns the glass so the face is towards my brother. Paps gazes at the glass and then at her in delight, laughs and claps his hands like a little kid. I chuckle and pull my hood back down. Checkers just found the way to my heart: through my brother.

“Would you like a face on yours, too?” she asks me playfully. My mind goes blank. That expression she’s wearing… if I’m being honest with myself, it’s pretty darn cute. Man, it’s been a long time since a pretty girl smiled at me, and a lot longer since one was willing to play with me… That didn’t come out right. I struggle to gather my thoughts.

“nah, i’d rather my food didn’t look at me.” I smirk at her.

“Well, in that case…” she says, and quickly sketches something on the side of my glass. She turns it to face me. It’s a sun. It’s coming out from behind a little cloud. The fact that she chose that image, at this time, when I’m in this kind of mood… I don’t know whether I want to smile or cry. It’s a stupidly powerful moment, and I feel stupid for experiencing it.

She must’ve seen something odd in my expression, ‘cause she asks, “Is it OK?” She looks a little worried. She couldn’t have known this childish scrawl would mean anything to me.

“it’s great, checkers,” I tell her. My smile feels a little sadder, but a little more sincere, than usual. “thanks.” I start squeezing lemon slices into my Coke. She doesn’t look convinced. I prod the ice cubes around in the glass with my straw. “really, i like it,” I mumble. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. “i know it’s silly, but… it matters, y’know?” Then, to save myself from further sappiness, I add cheekily, “ice to know sunbody cares.”

She smiles, less cheerfully but more warmly than before. “Well, every doodle has its day, I s’pose.”

That draws a chuckle out of me. I smile sidelong at her and take the first sip of my soda. “hey,” I blurt suddenly as the idea occurs to me, “you should come to our housewarming.”

She blinks, stunned for a moment. “Housewarming?” I can see her weighing the pros and cons of the invitation. Meanwhile, I’m mentally bludgeoning myself. _Of course_ she’s not going to come to Paps’s party! She barely knows us, and she won’t know anyone else there, if anyone freakin’ shows up. It would be hells of awkward. Or an awkward hell. One of those. Plus, she’s obviously too smart to put herself in a clearly threatening situation. A woman, alone, agreeing to meet up with two strange men? I’m an idiot for even bothering to ask.

A smile creeps across her face.

“Can I bring a friend?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ AUTHOR’S NOTE ~**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> Of course they’re all going to come to Papyrus’s housewarming. 1) Sans undervalues himself and his life, and is furthermore in a pessimistic mood right now. 2) No one can say no to Papyrus.
> 
> … Sans’s inner voice is sounding a lot like mine. Note to self: try not to be so Sans.


	3. Overexposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a party is attended, and nearly regretted.

_ You _

 

You burst through the kitchen door at a near-run, and as soon as it closes, hiding you from the view of the dining room, you begin gesticulating excitedly, as if the thrill is so powerful you just can’t keep your arms still. “Roxy! Roxy, Roxy!” You loop your arm through your friend’s, pulling her away from a cutting board with a half-chopped onion on it.

“Whoa, watch it!” she laughs. “No manhandling people with knives! What’s got you so excited all of a sudden?”

“You have to come to this party with me,” you say, giddy with an odd mix of exhilaration and anxiety.

“Honey, you know I’m always up for a party, but what’s got your panties in a bunch? You’re supposed to be the sensible one!”

“How’s this for sensible?” You release her so you can face her head-on rather than standing side-by-side. “It’s a housewarming for some monsters.”

Roxy’s eyes widen and a delighted grin spreads across her face. “Oh, honey, I’m so happy for you!” She throws her arms around you in a hug and, once she’s latched onto you, jiggles up and down in an ecstasy of enthusiasm. Roxy knows about your dream to meet a monster; your curiosity is a thing of legend, and the thought of a strange new people from a long-lost part of the world has been a focal point for your spirit of inquiry for almost a year. This housewarming will be more than an opportunity to make some interesting new friends, which, to you, is not in itself enough of an attraction to overcome the awkwardness of being surrounded by strangers. The real reason for your attendance will be to satisfy your curiosity, at least a little, about the mysterious and magical newcomers to your world. Talking to them while you’re working is difficult and distractive, and trying to fit as many questions as you can into the little time you have right now would probably make them very uncomfortable. Nobody wants to be grilled in a rapid-fire fashion by the serving staff while they’re trying to enjoy a meal.

Roxy finally releases you, and a madcap image pops into your head of yourself continuing to bounce cartoonishly up and down for a moment after she lets you go. You chuckle. Roxy says, “Of course we’ll go together! It’ll be soooo much fun!”

“Just promise you’ll keep me from making an ass of myself,” you entreat.

“Baaaabe,” Roxy whines in false frustration, “That’s what parties are FOR!”

“Aaaaand we’re back to our normal dynamic,” you snort, rolling your eyes. Roxy giggles.

 

* * * * *

The air is cold and crisp. Your breath crystallizes into a vaporous mist on contact with it, puffing out in front of you in tiny clouds. It snowed a little bit last night, and your steps crunch on the sidewalk. The sun sparkles on the freshly-fallen snow in glittering hues of golden iridescence. And your back is killing you.

“Why are we walking there, again?” you complain, adjusting your grip on the large box containing your housewarming present for your new acquaintances.

“’Cause it’s only three blocks from work,” Roxy laughs. “You’ve asked that twice already. Now cowgirl up and haul that heifer!”

“It’s not the weight; it’s the damn unwieldy nature. If you haven’t noticed, I’m basically bending over backwards to balance this thing. Besides, your box is only a third the size of mine, so shut up. Just shut up.”

Roxy giggles. “You really think they need a toaster oven big enough for a small pizza?”

You huff, only partially because of your burden. “It’s a toaster AND an oven. It’s the perfect gift! But only if you can fit a proper lunch in it. Anyway, look who’s talking. You got them an ice cream maker.”

“EVERYBODY NEEDS ICE CREAM!!!” Roxy shouts to the world at large.

“In winter,” you add.

“ICE CREAM!!!”

You laugh so hard you almost drop the box.

“Oh,” Roxy remarks at a normal volume, as if she hadn’t just been yelling “ice cream” at the top of her lungs. “We’re here.”

You peek around your box and smile at the spectacle. It’s not a large house, but the amount of Christmas plastered to it suggests that maybe Santa lives here. You don’t know the occupants very well, but if you had to guess, you’d say this is Papyrus’s doing. The driveway has four cars crammed into it, with more parked along the sides of the road. They seem to come in a very wide range of makes and models: a bright-pink Mercedes-Benz is competing for curb space with a beat-up, dirty Winnebago, white (nominally) with beige striping. A red Mazda Miata convertible in the driveway tells you someone has dramatic tastes but not a lot of money to spend on them, and beside it a black Audi A8 says exactly the opposite: “I’m rich as Midas but don’t want to be obvious about it.” You stop to look at the Audi for a moment; it’s the sort of car you’d love to have one day, with all the power and luxury of the Mercedes, but none of the ostentatiousness.

“Come on, gearhead, it’s cold out here,” Roxy urges you, bouncing on her toes. Reluctantly, you turn away from the driveway and together you and Roxy head for the front door. You’re not really a gearhead, but your father was, and growing up in a house where vehicles were noticed and commented on, you naturally learned some things through osmosis, as well as picking up a basic appreciation for them in general. Roxy only calls you “gearhead” because you seem knowledgeable to her, not because you’re actually an expert.

You wonder which car belongs to Sans and Papyrus. Likely one of the two at the top of the driveway, since they would have been home to greet arriving guests. Not the Audi: the house is smallish and in a lower-middle-class area. The Miata, then. Again, you guess Papyrus was probably the decision-maker in this regard. You can definitely see him in a red convertible.

Before you and Roxy reach the door, it’s thrown open by a tall, exuberant skeleton wearing a Santa hat. From the open doorway comes a wash of noise: music and happy voices. Papyrus leaps from the top of the steps to the ground and scoops you up in a hug. Your box tumbles out of your arms and rolls into the snow.

“Waugh!” you exclaim, shocked. You barely know this guy and were NOT expecting to be manhandled!

“YOU CAME! YOU REALLY CAME! SANS! SANS, COME HERE! MISS (Y/N) HAS COME TO WARM OUR HOUSE!” Papyrus squeezes you joyfully and starts to carry you towards the door, your face pressed into his ribcage and your legs dangling. You can hear Roxy behind you both, caught up in hysterical laughter.

“Please put me down,” you manage to splutter out.

“OH, OH MISS (Y/N), I AM SORRY!” Papyrus carefully places you on your feet and dusts you off. “SANS SAYS I SHOULD NOT HUG HUMANS UNTIL I GET TO KNOW THEM WELL. BUT NEVER FEAR! BEFORE THE DAY IS OVER WE WILL SURELY BE THE BEST OF FRIENDS, AND THEN MANY HUGS SHALL BE YOURS!”

“This guy is great!” Roxy giggles. She’s doubled over, holding her stomach, and her laughter is only now starting to die down.

“IT IS TRUE, I AM VERY GREAT,” Papyrus confirms brightly. “ARE YOU MISS (Y/N)’S FRIEND WHO WILL BE COMING TO THE PARTY WITH HER?”

“Yeah,” she gasps at Papyrus, catching her breath after her riotous laughing fit. “I’m Roxy. And I’d love a hug, if it’s all the same to you.”

“IT IS NOT AT ALL ALL THE SAME TO ME,” Papyrus shouts delightedly, scooping up Roxy and snuggling her. “I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO GIVE YOU A HUG AND CERTAINLY DO NOT WANT TO NOT GIVE YOU ONE!” Roxy squeals in delight and hugs him back. You roll your eyes fondly and walk over to examine your housewarming gift. The box is slightly crumpled on one corner; you hope the toaster oven hasn’t been damaged. You heft it again, but Papyrus puts Roxy down and takes the box from you. “LET ME CARRY THIS FOR YOU, FRIEND!” He seems a little calmer now that his driving need for hugs has been met and reciprocated. “I SHALL CARRY THIS, TOO,” he declares, taking Roxy’s smaller package and stacking it on top of the larger one. Then he leaps back up the steps and throws the door open, proclaiming, “MISS (Y/N) AND MISS ROXY HAVE COME TO WARM THE HOUSE! SANS, WHERE WERE YOU? YOU SHOULD HAVE COME OUT TO GREET OUR GUESTS!”

You glance around and are overcome with a mixture of fascination and profound nervousness: the room is full of monsters. It looks like you and Roxy might be the only humans here. Suddenly your plans to question Sans and Papyrus about themselves and their race seem… well… a little too rude to contemplate. Maybe you should just focus on getting through the day without offending anyone. You can always interrogate the skeletons some other day when you aren’t so… outnumbered.

Your eyes track around the room, trying to find something familiar to calm your sudden bout of nerves. They light on Sans, who’s sprawled on the couch with his back against the armrest and his feet on the cushions. He gives you a grin and a little wave. You take a step towards him, but a huge wall of white fur suddenly blocks your path. You slowly raise your gaze to meet the warm brown eyes of a smiling goat-like woman. She is taller even than Papyrus, over seven feet and broad with muscle, but she looks down at you with a great deal of kindness and warmth, and you feel yourself relax just a little.

“Hello, child, are you the new friend Papyrus has been telling us about?” Her voice is low and musical.

“Uh… I don’t know. Probably?” You wouldn’t consider yourself a friend of the skeletons yet, but Papyrus seems to think of you that way. A small smile works its way onto your face. The idea of being his friend makes you, honestly, pretty happy.

“Well, if you are indeed (Y/N), it is very nice to meet you.” She holds out a hand-like paw the size of your head. You place your own hand gingerly inside it. She shakes your hand gently but warmly. There’s white hair between the leathery pads on her palm; it’s as soft as rabbit fur. “It is good to see young Papyrus making friends,” she continues. “We are not able to be with him as often as we would like right now, and I have been hoping he and Sans would find some kind souls to keep them company while we are all so busy. I am Toriel, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you,” you respond politely. “I’m (Y/N), and this is my friend…” You gesture towards where Roxy should have been, only to discover that she’s nowhere to be seen. She’s probably either socializing with little to no concern for propriety, or in the kitchen monopolizing the snacks. Either way, it seems you’re on your own for now. “… Roxy,” you finish lamely. Toriel laughs. Her laugh is loud and free, her head thrown back and her mouth wide open. You find yourself smiling along with her.

“Come,” Toriel invites, taking your hand again. “I shall introduce you to my family and our friends.”

* * * * *

Introductions took a long time; there were a lot of friends and family to meet. Toriel started with her own family: her husband was also a white, goat-like monster, which made you wonder if there were sub-classes within the monster race that tended to… uh… fraternize more often with each other than with other “classes.” Their child was, surprisingly, a teenage human girl. It was then you realized you were speaking to the king and queen of the monsters and the famous child ambassador. The ambassador, Frisk, was surprisingly young (Toriel said she’d be fifteen in April) and surprisingly quiet (you’d think that would be a drawback for an ambassador, but Asgore, the monster king, insisted Frisk could be very communicative when she wanted to be and was always remarkably determined). Although she spoke very little, Frisk was energetic and expressive, and insisted on giving you a hug before you left to continue your introductions. Your second hug of the day, and it was only three o’clock; monsters (and their families) were surprisingly touchy-feely.

Your ideas regarding class and relationships were thrown for a loop when you were introduced to Alphys, a yellow reptile-ish woman with glasses, a slight stutter, and what seemed like a nervous disposition, and Undyne, a blue fishlike monster with an eyepatch and a cheerfully aggressive demeanor who called you a nerd and gave you a noogie within a few minutes of meeting you. These two were in a committed relationship with each other and their “types” weren’t remotely similar. But then, with so many different kinds of monsters in existence, how did two of exactly the same type end up together? It seemed too unlikely to be coincidence.

Through Alphys, you met the flamboyant and somewhat effeminate robot Mettaton, apparently some sort of Underground pop idol/film star, and Mettaton introduced you to Napstablook, a very shy and awkward ghost who turned out to be a talented synthpop composer. Papyrus has apparently invited half the Underground, and almost everyone he invited was able to come. The small house is full to bursting, and the partygoers ebb and flow like currents in a stream, swirling together to enjoy each other’s company for a while and then breaking apart to flow elsewhere. Spontaneity is the word of the day: here, an impromptu karaoke contest is being organized by Mettaton; there, some sort of game like a cross between leapfrog and tag has broken out, putting several articles of furniture in grave peril. A fierce battle cry pierces what, before, you would have described as a solid wall of noise, and following on the heels of the howl, Undyne comes tearing through the room, holding Frisk above her head as if the half-grown girl weighs nothing at all. Frisk is stretched out like Supergirl in flight and is shrieking in glee as the fish woman pounds through the room and disappears through the door leading into the hallway, her battle cry trailing after her.

It’s been almost an hour since your arrival, Roxy is nowhere to be seen, and your mind is whirling like a leaf being tumbled along on a raging river. You need a break. You tug on your guide’s sleeve tentatively. “Toriel?”

“Yes, child?” Toriel looks at you with consideration, and then smiles kindly. “I expect you need some time to absorb it all?” You nod shyly. “Well, there’s no need to befriend everyone all at once. Why don’t you take a drink and sit down? I assure you no one will take offense.” Her warm hand lands gently on your shoulder and steers you towards the kitchen counter, on which an array of snacks and paper plates, non-alcoholic beverages, and plastic cups and utensils are laid out.

You gratefully fill a red plastic cup with root beer and navigate your way to the couch in the living room. Sans is still sprawled on it, in approximately the same position he was in when you arrived. You tap his legs with a finger and he draws them to his chest so you can sit next to him.

“overexposure?” he drawls, smirking a little.

You nod and sip at your soda. “It’s pretty crowded, and everyone seems to know each other well. I wish I knew where Roxy went; she’s supposed to be keeping me company so I don’t feel so out of place.”

“we invited you, so you’re not out of place,” says Sans. His deep voice sounds a little more forceful than you’ve come to expect of him. “you have as much of a right to be here as anyone else.” You gaze into your cup, touched. You’re about to thank him, but before you open your mouth, he continues, “also…” and nudges your shoulder with the knuckle of his index finger. Then he flicks that finger at the window behind the couch. You turn sideways in your seat, towards Sans, so you can look outside. Roxy is sitting on the small porch, talking to… a man made of fire? The fire monster is wearing semi-formal attire, black slacks, a white shirt, and a black button-up vest, and although you can’t see a face in the flames of his head, there’s a pair of glasses hovering over the place his eyes should be. He’s not burning his clothes, the wood of the porch, or the chair he’s sitting on, which makes you wonder how he functions and if he’s able to control the heat he puts out, or alternately, if that’s not really fire.

Roxy is chattering away at a hundred miles a minute, which isn’t uncommon for her. Her companion isn’t saying anything, at least not that you can tell, but he seems to be listening intently. As you watch, Roxy spears a marshmallow on a fork and holds it out, still talking animatedly. Her companion holds out his hand, palm up, and his flames grow brighter and higher in his cupped palm. The marshmallow begins to turn a tempting golden hue.

You chuckle. Sans grins at you.

Outside, Roxy removes the marshmallow from the flame, hesitates, and then cheerfully holds the fork out to her companion. You can’t hear what she’s saying, but you’re pretty sure she’s offering to feed it to him. The flames of his face grow brighter and he holds up a hand, refusing politely. Roxy shrugs, grinning, and eats the toasted marshmallow herself.

“My god,” you comment quietly. “She’s flirting with him.”

Sans is watching you, his expression uncommonly serious.

“your friend,” he mutters. “is this kinda thing usual for her?”

“Sort of,” you respond. “She used to flirt with any guy she spoke to when we were kids, but then her first real boyfriend told her… I don’t know if I should be telling you this.”

“okay,” Sans says soberly. “guess i’ll start. that guy out there, grillby, he’s a friend of mine. he hasn’t shown any interest in relationships since his wife passed. i don’t want to see him get hurt.”

You consider this, watching things play out beyond the window. Something Roxy said has made Grillby’s shoulders shake with what looks like laughter. Roxy seems to take encouragement from this; she jumps out of her chair and starts acting out a scene from whatever story she’s telling. Stories… it sounds like this Grillby has a story of his own, and probably some baggage, too. It’s hard to judge his age, of course, but if he’s a widower he might also be significantly older than Roxy. You now have some worries of your own. Obviously, Sans feels he needs to protect his friend. Well, so do you.

“Like I said, she was flirtatious. When we were thirteen, she got her first real boyfriend. He was sixteen and had seen a little more of relationships than we had. He told Roxy that if she flirted without meaning it, she was going to hurt people. For the first time, she started to think about the effects her games were having on the guys she played them with. Since then, she never flirts while she’s in a relationship, unless it’s with her current boyfriend. If she’s single, she still enjoys flirting, but she won’t do it with anyone she wouldn’t date. She’s…” You search for the best way to say what you’re thinking. “She must think Grillby is cute.” You flush a little, and turn to meet Sans’s eyes, your mouth set in a firm line. “She’s had a lot of boyfriends, Sans, but she’s never broken up with any of them. They always leave her. One of them told her recently that it’s like dating a little girl. That she needed to grow up.” Your voice has grown hard and angry. You stare out the window at the unlikely pair, all but glaring at Grillby. “So what if she’d rather play Twister than go on a dinner date? So what if her idea of a great housewarming gift is an ice cream maker? She doesn’t need to change! She’s fine the way she is!”

Sans is watching you silently, the lights in his eye sockets examining your face. You look at him in turn, willing him to say something. You’re not sure what you were hoping to hear, but it certainly wasn’t…

“ice cream maker?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ AUTHOR’S NOTE ~**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> Ideally, Frisk would be gender-neutral, but writing it that way is awkward, so I decided to make her a girl, which is what I felt her as while playing the game. I considered giving her a female gender and a male sex to keep up the aspect of ambiguity, but I decided that would introduce a new complication to the story that would need to be addressed, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to divert focus from the main storyline in that way. So she’s a girl.
> 
> Of course the Audi belongs to the royal family. And of course the Mercedes is Mettaton’s. Undyne and Alphys are currently living in the Winnebago and are disgustingly happy (and sappy) together. And, for the curious, Grillby drives an old-fashioned ‘80s Crown Vic, which he keeps clean and in good repair. It’s silver with a red leather interior.


	4. Cheshire Brat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an unnecessary errand is undertaken for the sake of plausibility, and fruit is found to be quite humorous.

_ Sans _

 

“ice cream maker?”

I can feel a mischievous grin crawling across my face at Checkers’s expression. “Aargh, NO!” she groans. “You didn’t hear that!”

“i sure as sugar did. thanks for the sweet tip.” I have to suppress a laugh as Checkers’s face wrenches to the side, like she’s tasted something sour.

“NO! No puns! Just promises! Forget what you heard! Right now!”

“aww, checkers, how cold i forget? it’s like a cream come true!” I can’t stop myself from sniggering a little.

“It needs to be a surprise!” she insists. Gotta say I’m really enjoying watching her facial expressions right now. She’s kinda cute when she’s angry and desperate… is it weird of me that I think that? Ulp, better derail that train of thought before it arrives at its destination. Besides, Checkers is still talking; I oughta be paying attention. “Just promise you won’t tell Papyrus!”

“maker me.” I waggle my brows at her.

“WON’T TELL PAPYRUS WHAT?” Checkers groans again, and I twitch guiltily. She throws me a pleading glance which is totally unnecessary.

“won’t tell Papyrus we’re out of spaghetti noodles,” I offer.

“OUT OF SPAGHETTI NOODLES?! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?! IT IS ALMOST TIME TO MAKE DINNER FOR OUR FRIENDS, AND WE ARE OUT OF NOODLES?! SANS, YOU MUST GO GET SOME RIGHT AWAY!” Poor Paps is so frantic it doesn’t occur to him my answer might not be entirely truthful. In fact, it’s so untruthful that there may not be room for more pasta boxes in the cupboard. But the damage is done; I’d better resign myself to spaghetti every night for a month when Paps realizes we’re swimming in noodles. I sigh to myself. At least he’s too innocent to think of actually opening the cupboard to check. Paps picks me up by the upper arms and starts to shake me. Really wish he wouldn’t do that; it’s kinda hard to find my balance again afterwards.

“SANS, PLEASE, YOU MUST HELP! THERE IS LESS THAN AN HOUR BEFORE I MUST START COOKING, AND THE CAR IS BLOCKED INTO THE DRIVEWAY!”

I grumble as Paps puts me back on my feet. (The room rocks. I make a grab for the arm of the couch to steady myself.) This is what I get for not having a list of ready-made excuses. Consequences. I get consequences.

“fine. guess i can go spaghetti some more.”

Paps groans. Checkers laughs. She liked that one, huh? Seeing her laugh because of me makes me feel sorta warm inside. I give her a lazy wave (the last bit of lazy I’ll get for a while, I guess) and take a step toward the door. Outta nowhere, Undyne dodges around me and gets Paps in a headlock. She’s obviously overstimulated and probably full of sugar and caffeine, and is wrenching my bro’s head around, shouting about how great the party is and when’ll it be time for cake and presents? Goddammit, Undyne, the last thing you need right now is more sugar. Paps yells back that dessert comes after dinner and grabs her by the ponytail, pulling her head backward to make her let go of him. Undyne immediately wraps her arms around Paps’s waist and suplexes him into the couch, right next to Checkers, who flinches. Paps, lying upside-down with his legs hooked over the back of the couch, waves cheerfully at her from a foot away. He looks like he’s about to start up a conversation, but I figure Checkers might appreciate a break from all this. I hold out a hand to her.

“c’mon. let’s get outta here.”

 

_ You _

 

When Sans offers you his hand, you grasp it. You don’t even think about it first, which is unusual for you. Something about the small skeleton just puts you at ease; though you met him only recently, he already feels like a good friend. You expect his hand to be cold and hard, but it’s not: it’s warm, and the moment you touch it you can feel something padding the bones, something that’s springy at first but which gives quickly under the pressure of your hand until your fingers alight on the bones themselves. While it’s there, it feels almost like a thin layer of memory foam. When it disappears, you’re left with the feeling of warm, smooth bone in your hand. The bone has a strange softness of its own, sort of like chalk.

You’re tempted to start poking Sans in order to examine him further, but he’s already pulling you towards the door. You decide to put off your curiosity just a little longer. Instead, you ask, “How are we going to get to the store if the car’s blocked into the driveway?”

“don’t worry,” Sans replies, throwing a grin over his shoulder at you. “i know a shortcut.”

Sans tugs at your hand, and you follow him outside. Roxy and Grillby are still sitting at the far end of the porch, Roxy bundled in her coat and the fire-man looking oddly cozy in a simple shirt and vest. Roxy is talking more seriously now, and the cold has brought out the pink in her cheeks. That, or she’s blushing. She’s warming her hands by holding them out over Grillby’s extended palms. Neither of them have noticed you and Sans leaving the house; surprising, since neither of you were being especially quiet about it. Sans glances at you. His expression is hard to read, but you think there’s a bit of mischief hidden in it. Suddenly, and to your alarm, his left eye flares a vivid blue, and he flicks his index finger to the side. Roxy’s chair scoots out from under her and she falls into Grillby’s lap. You clap a hand to your mouth: what if she gets burned?! But Roxy doesn’t seem to be hurt; instead, she lies in Grillby’s arms, immobile, blushing furiously. Grillby’s face turns a hot white and the flames at the top of his head flicker and grow in intensity. Sans pulls you around the side of the house, out of view, as Grillby carefully helps Roxy up. Once you’re both safely out of sight, Sans stuffs his hands in his hoodie pockets and leans against the wall. Your hand is cold with the absence of his.

“i’ve got my eye on your friend,” he says, giving you a smirk.

“And I’m watching yours,” you reply with an expression that’s meant to be threatening but probably just looks amused.

“well, don’t watch him too hard. somebody may get jealous.” Sans is still smirking at you. You smirk right back. You’ve just been handed a golden teasing opportunity.

“Is the somebody you?”

Sans chokes. “roxy!” he gasps after a moment of coughing. “i meant roxy! would get jealous. of grillby.” With each attempt at clarification, Sans’s face gets redder, and your grin grows wider. “sh-shut up,” he finishes, and tugs his hood up, hiding his face in its depths. You laugh; that reaction was priceless! (Y/N): one, Sans: zero.

When you’re done laughing at his expense, you nudge Sans with your shoulder. “So, are we gonna go getti some s’ketti, or what?”

Sans laughs. It’s not his usual chuckle or snicker: it’s a short-lived but full-blown “a-ha-ha!” There’s an element of surprise to the laugh, as if it caught him unawares, like he wasn’t expecting such a sound to come out of him. He pulls his hood down again, revealing that his smile is a little different than usual, as well. This smile isn’t mischievous or self-satisfied in any way; rather, it’s a pure statement of delight, the smile of a child who’s discovered a new joy in the world.

It’s beautiful.

_Did I really just think that?_ You can feel your face heating up, and you pull the collar of your jacket up to hide your blush. Luckily, Sans misunderstands.

“cold?”

You nod, relieved.

Sans glances around as if to check for observers, and then takes your hand again. “don’t take this the wrong way,” he murmurs, and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. You’re about to ask him what he thinks he’s doing when the world shifts and flattens and slides away, like a piece of paper snatched up by a draft. You try to gasp, but there’s no air. The pressure is incredible. Your ears want to pop, but in the absence of atmosphere, it’s not possible. Terrified, you grasp at Sans as the only solid thing in this dark, empty place, just as the pressure releases you and your sneakers strike pavement.

You stumble and fall against him, releasing the gasp that you’d been denied a moment ago. Sans supports you as you find your feet again; now you know why he put his arm around you. You stand panting for a moment, catching your breath and trying to make yourself let him go. Your fingers are clenched into the fabric of his hoodie, and they don’t seem to want to release him. You’re pressed up against Sans’s ribcage, and when you open your eyes you find that because you’re the same height, this position is a lot more intimate than it would otherwise be. With his face level with yours, you’re only a couple of centimeters away from each other. You blush and release him, stepping back quickly. Sans’s cheekbones are a little pink, as well, and he rubs the back of his skull bashfully. “sorry. i’d’ve warned you, but it’s kinda hard to explain.”

You put a hand to your chest, feeling your heartbeat as it slows to normal. “What… what was that?”

Sans smirks. “shortcut.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, Mr. Mystery.” Sans doesn’t elaborate, but only smiles more widely. You look around; you seem to be in an alleyway. In fact, it’s an alley around the side of the Markie-Mart in the nearest city to your little town. Your eyes widen. “We’re… we’re in Edmondsville. How did you do that?”

Sans’s smug smile is in danger of engulfing his face. “magic.”

You groan. “You’re such a brat.”

“and science. mostly magic.”

“Cheshire Brat.”

Sans snickers. You grab the sleeve of his hoodie and march him across the street. You may as well get what you came for.

The Markie-Mart is crowded; Saturday afternoon is a popular shopping time. You and Sans collect several stares as you walk along the sidewalk, and more when you enter the store. Sans smiles and waves lackadaisically at anyone he catches the eye of. Most of them smile and wave back. If they’re with someone else, a parent, spouse or friend, they generally turn to their companion and start talking excitedly. A couple of people avert their eyes and walk away when you or Sans catch them staring. “I guess being a monster makes you sort of like a celebrity,” you muse.

“except you’re a little scary,” Sans agrees.

“So, _exactly_ like a celebrity.”

Sans chuckles. You let his sleeve go and head for the pasta and sauces aisle, but Sans lingers in the fruit and vegetable area, examining something. You stop after a few steps and return to his side, curious to see what’s caught his attention. It’s a wrinkly, dumpy-looking greenish-yellow thing. When Sans sees you pulling up beside him, he grins at you and points to the item label.

“Ugli fruit,” you read.

“sure is,” Sans says, and you both laugh.

“Maybe we shouldn’t laugh at it,” you tell him. “It might be sensitive.”

“horrible things can be sweet on the inside,” Sans agrees.

“Living proof, right here,” you tease, poking him in the arm. Again, you notice that odd, short-lived cushioning effect, less noticeable under the fabric of his hoodie but still there.

“hey,” Sans objects. He looks a little offended, but he’s still smiling and is also blushing again. You decide to take any sting out of the comment by looping your arm through his. He huffs and quirks a crooked smile at you. Then he points to the side. “what about this one?”

“Oh, we have to get some of these!” you exclaim, pulling Sans over to the pile of green, multi-ridged fruits he’d indicated.

He reads the label. “star fruit?”

“It’s great in fruit salads,” you tell him, picking out a few. “When you cut it, the cross section looks like a star.”

“cool.” Sans picks one up, running his finger bones over the rubbery skin. “weird.”

“Weird things can be sweet on the inside.” You smirk. “Like…”

“alright, alright,” Sans interjects, grinning. “no need to rub it in.”

The two of you move from one item to the next, making comments and laughing. You have to bodily drag Sans away from the bananas, which, according to his claims, are the funniest of fruits, and which are subjected to various humiliations before you manage to bear away their tormentor. Sans is in obvious high spirits and his good mood comes with a level of clownishness that, frankly, you find adorable. That you’re drawing more stares than ever doesn’t bother you, because the people watching you seem much less cautious of Sans and more amused and/or annoyed. They’re looking at you like you’re a couple of unruly kids. Not ideal, but it’s a step in the right direction. Before you’ve finished with the fruit section, you and Sans are both in stitches, and it seems like everything you see and everything that’s said makes the giggling worse.

“Durian… isn’t he a rock star?”

“kumquat. best name ever. kumquat…”

“What the hell is a Grapple? It looks like… hey, it’s just an apple with pretensions!”

“kumquat. kumquat. kum… dammit, it’s lost all meaning…”

You stop to catch your breath together, leaning on the edge of a wooden bin, and find yourselves looking at a strange orange fruit (?) with a spiky exterior and, apparently, two names, one Vietnamese and one Thai.

“Gac.”

“fuk.”

Your new laughing fit hits you both so hard you have to lean on each other to keep from collapsing. “the name suits it so well!” Sans all but howls, and buries his face in your shoulder, possibly as an attempt to smother his laughter into submission. You lean into him in turn, trying to calm down. Just as you manage to catch your breath, you look at the gac/fuk fruit again and dissolve once more into hysterical giggles. Then Sans goes rigid against you and says, “shit, what time is it?”

Panic hits you. You check your phone. You’ve used up all the time you had, and then some. “The spaghetti!” you shout, and, grabbing Sans by the hand, you make a dash for the pastas. You skid into the ethnic aisle, Sans hard on your heels, and tip several boxes of spaghetti noodles into the skeleton’s arms. “Come on!” you shout, and break for the registers at the front of the store… which are all occupied by gratuitously long lines. You groan with frustration and dance impatiently in place with your feet. Sans snickers at you.

“What’s so funny?” you ask. “It’s YOU Papyrus will be mad at when we finally get back.”

“nothin’,” Sans replies. “just thought your little dance was adorable.”

“Argh!”

“Uh…” The man in front of you turns to look at you. “Would you like to go ahead of me?” The kind offer short-circuits your temper tantrum. You glance at his items: he’s only got a few. Ahead of him, however, are several people with full baskets.

“Thanks,” you say, smiling at him wryly. “But I don’t think it’ll make much of a difference.”

The man shrugs. “Sorry, lady.”

“Aah, it’s not really a problem,” you reply. “I just hate being late, I guess.”

Sans chuckles again. You flush, with embarrassment this time. “CB, you can quit laughing at me now.”

“cb? …for cheshire brat?”

“Yeah.”

Sans makes a thoughtful noise. You’re suddenly anxious, unsure how he’ll feel about the nickname. Then he grins at you.

“i love it.”

You smile at him, pleased. Checkers and the Cheshire Brat. It sounds pretty good to you.

 

* * * * *

Papyrus has dinner ready when you and Sans walk in the door. “SANS! YOU MISSED IT! I OPENED THE CUPBOARD TO GET OUT SEASONINGS FOR THE SAUCE AND MANY BOXES OF SPAGHETTI NOODLES FELL OUT! THANK GOODNESS YOU ARE SO BAD AT COUNTING; INSTEAD OF ZERO BOXES, AS YOU SAID THERE WERE, WE HAD EIGHT ALL THE TIME!”

“heh, yeah, it’s a mystery how i pasta my math class,” Sans replies, taking your coat and hanging it up for you. You giggle.

“I KNOW,” Papyrus says, untying a “Kiss the Cook” apron that has “Cook” crossed out and “Great Papyrus” written on it in red marker. “HOW WOULD YOU GET ALONG WITHOUT ME? SUCH A SILLY SANS…”

Sans gives you a wink. You laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~ AUTHOR’S NOTE ~**
> 
>  
> 
> There’s no way you’d find gac in a Wal-Mart, and if you can find a Vietnamese grocery store, you’ll usually see it frozen, not fresh. But the names are so good it was impossible not to include it. At least I can be proud of myself for having it in the right season — it generally grows from December to February. :P Though a case can be made for its presence if we pretend that this imaginary country of mine is close to Vietnam…
> 
> Also, for the scientifically curious, the “pressure” that Checkers feels is, in fact, happening in a near-vacuum and is a result of intense gravity, not high atmosphere.


	5. The Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one question is answered and several more are raised, and in which, for certain of our friends, the risk of attachment becomes a matter for concern.

_ Sans _

 

Of course, things settle down once Paps brings out the spaghetti. His cooking just keeps getting better, and everyone’s too busy stuffing their faces to be wild and crazy. Hard to believe that, just a year ago, his… s’ketti… heh… was hardly edible. The table only seats about six people, so most of us have taken our plates into the living room. Frisk and I are on the couch with Checkers sandwiched between us, there are a couple of overstuffed chairs that Mettaton and Toriel are lounging in, and most everyone else sits on the floor, including Paps, who’s leaning against my end of the couch.

I can’t tell you how happy it makes me, seeing everyone together like this.

Can’t believe so many of our friends made it, I really can’t. I guess nobody can say no to Paps. Didn’t realize how lonely it’d been, just me and my brother in a new, empty house that really didn’t feel like home. I may not open up to people easily, but I really like having them around, and these particular people… they’re special, y’know?

Then there’s _that_ one.

I shoot Checkers a glance out of the corner of my eye. I’m not sure how she’s done it, but I feel really comfortable around her, like I’ve known her forever. Better be careful; there are lots of things I gotta keep to myself, things about me, about the past, things even Paps doesn’t know. If I get too comfortable I might let something slip. Might be best to create some distance between us. The thought squeezes my heart. Or it would if I had one. I’m surrounded by people I love, and the fact that they don’t know me, don’t really know what’s going on inside, well… sometimes I think it’s gonna kill me.

If I can’t tell _them_ what goes on in my head, in my heart, how could I ever tell _her?_

Shit, shit, shit… don’t do this. The day’s been so good. Your house is full of friends, you’re comfortable, you’ve got spaghetti, and in a few hours, when they all go home, you’ll play some Skyrim and probably fall asleep on the couch. It’ll be fuckin’ sweet. So think about the good things. Just the good things. My eyes drift to Checkers again. I can feel a quirked smile rising up one side of my face. Speaking of good things…

I’m sorry we scared her earlier, but now she’s looking a lot more at ease, and is fielding questions from the others with what looks like pleasure in the conversation: how’d she meet us, what does she do aside from work in a café, does she like anime, etc. Turns out she likes video games and does handicrafts, like crochet and beading and stuff. She reads a lot, too. And, yes, she likes anime. I’d like to ask her some questions of my own, but I figure I’ve had her to myself for most of the day and I oughta let the others have their turns. I’m trying not to let myself feel discouraged that Checkers isn’t paying attention to me. At the same time as I’m reminding myself to keep her at arm’s length. How does that make any goddamn sense? What the hell is wrong with me?

Her friend, Roxy, she’s getting the same treatment, being quizzed about herself and her life by whoever happens to be nearby. We all know each other pretty well, but these new girls, they’re basically like mysterious strangers. Roxy’s still hanging with Grillbz, over by the wall, and has picked up another friend while Checkers and I were gone: Argyle, known to most of us as the Monster Kid. MK’s even more hyperactive than Undyne, and since Roxy apparently has an ungodly amount of energy and can actually tolerate his presence for more than a few minutes, he seems to’ve latched onto her. MK doesn’t have any arms, but is doing pretty well for himself with the spaghetti, picking up one noodle at a time with his long tongue and slurping it with a totally unnecessary amount of noise.

Undyne’s been bouncing in place over there by Alphys for a while, and apparently she’s met her patience quota for the day, because she suddenly leaps to her feet and shouts, “It’s time for cake now, right? I’ll go cut it!” and races into the kitchen.

“O-oh, dear…” Alphys says, putting a hand to her mouth. “I’d b-better go h-help her.” She hefts herself up off the floor as Undyne’s voice comes ringing out of the kitchen door, yelling something that sounds like, “Now _that’s_ a knife!” Alphys shuffles quickly into the kitchen and I can hear her quietly mumbling, trying to talk Undyne down. There’s only one way this can end.

“welp, everybody, let’s go get some cake.” … Before Undyne smashes it into paste or something. There’s a clatter from the direction of the kitchen, and the bright whirring noise that means Undyne has manifested one of her spears. “like, right now,” I urge, and everybody stampedes for the kitchen.

We interrupt Undyne just as she’s about to do a passion smashin’ on our poor sheet cake. Alphys is hanging off her arm like a big yellow bracelet, but Undyne doesn’t even seem to notice. What she _does_ notice is all the rest of us charging into the kitchen like a herd of wildebeest, yelling at her to stop.

 _“Somebody_ has to cut it,” she complains, looking a little put-out. Then her face brightens, and that wild, shark-toothed grin of hers reappears, and she reaches behind me and yanks Checkers out of the crowd. I have to fight the sudden urge to grab Checkers myself and pull her back behind me. “(Y/N) should do it!” Undyne announces, putting Checkers into a headlock. Checkers, to her credit, doesn’t seem too freaked out, just a little surprised and, well, uncomfortable. She wouldn’t have handled it well earlier in the day; I guess she’s built up a tolerance to crazy shenanigans. “Here,” Undyne urges as Checkers tries to pry her head free. “Use this.” And Undyne hands Checkers her own energy spear.

Checkers stops struggling. “Whoa,” she says. Her fingertips trace the haft of the spear, twitching as bright sparks of magic fly out of it and into her, setting her hair to floating as if she was touching one of those lightning ball things. She peers at it closely, turning it this way and that. Undyne has released her, but she’s still bent over. I snigger. She hasn’t even noticed she’s not in a headlock any more. She also hasn’t noticed everyone watching her. I guess it didn’t occur to any of us that magic stuff might be as fascinating to some humans as things like the stars and the grass are to us. It’s a magic moment for Checkers, pun intended of course, and I think we’re all glad, honored even, to be there while it’s happening. I know I am.

Then Undyne shouts, “Cut it already!” and the spell is broken. Checkers jumps, and everyone laughs. Gamely, she uses the tip of the spear to start slicing a grid into the cake. The lines she cuts in it smoke slightly, and the smell of baking sweets wafts through the air. When she starts passing out pieces, the edges are warm, and the frosting is slightly melty, making the cake super-moist. It’s heavenly.

Checkers is staring at me. I was too caught up in cake heaven to notice, but she’s so intent on watching me that her own fork has frozen halfway to her mouth and is just hovering there like it’s forgotten its purpose in life. I stare back at her, disconcerted. “what? cake on my face?”

“Where does it go?” Checkers asks bashfully. I glance at the bite on my fork, and then at her. Huh. Never been asked that question before. “I mean, you don’t have a throat, or a stomach, do you?” she continues. Then, “Do you have a stomach?” as if she’s expecting me to say that, yes, despite all appearances there’s a stomach under my t-shirt.

No. No there’s not.

“uh,” I stall, trying to gather my thoughts. “it’s kinda technical.”

“I mean,” Checkers continues, “do you have, like, invisible organs and stuff?”

I laugh. “no, no organs.”

“Because when I, uh, touch you, I can feel a sort of…”

Jeez, how many questions does she have? Has she been holding them back this whole time? She looks uncomfortable again, like she’s embarrassed to want to know more about me… about _us._

Nobody should ever feel bad for having questions.

How can I make her more comfortable?

I put down my cake plate, the better to focus on the conversation. “checkers, look, nobody here is gonna mind if you wanna ask them about themselves. i mean, if you’re curious about monster stuff, we understand.” Checkers mumbles something about not wanting to be offensive. I laugh. “undyne just put you in a headlock, and you think _you’re_ the offensive one?” She thinks about that for a moment, and then gives me an amused chuckle. “look,” I say, “i’ll trade you. i answer one of your questions, you answer one of mine. sound alright?”

Something about the equal exchange idea seems to put her at ease. “Okay,” she responds. “What’s that… uh… stuff that I feel when…”

“when you touch me?” I finish for her. She nods. “pseudo-flesh. it’s an impermanent ectoplasmic structure that’s unique to skeletons and ghosts. its basic purpose in skeletons like paps and me is to protect the bones from impact. it’ll accumulate subconsciously whenever i anticipate contact with something, and i can make it dissipate by sort of… relaxing it, like a tensed-up muscle. at least i imagine it’s like that,” I chuckle. “it’s sensitive in its own right, so I can also examine potentially dangerous things by touch without worrying about getting injured.”

“So when I do this,” Checkers says, and holds up her hand. I hold mine up in response, and she moves forward to touch me. Her warm fingers explore the gentle support of my pseudo-flesh, and then I relax it and her hand meets mine as the ectoplasm melts away to nothing. Her hand is soft against my sensitive bones. Something powerful is happening to me; I don’t know why, but suddenly I feel myself on the verge of tears. I don’t even know if they’re happy or sad tears. I just know I can’t let them fall. I swallow, hard, and force whatever it is I’m feeling down into my toes. I imagine it draining away into the earth. I hold still as Checkers traces my fingers with her own, exploring me with childlike wonder. I watch her face while she does it.

When she lowers her hand, I feel its absence, a hollow feeling like despair against my finger bones. I have to fight with myself not to cling to her hand, not to reach for it once it parts company with mine.

“Cool,” she says. “Your turn. What’s your question?”

“you know what?” I mumble. I can’t, right now. I just… I can’t. “some other time.” I pull my hood up, hiding my face, and stuff my hands in my pockets for good measure. I turn away and trudge up the stairs. As my bedroom door closes behind me, I hear a concerned voice, drifting through the crack between the door and the jamb just before the latch clicks shut. How Checkers’s voice can find me through all the noise going on in the house is a mystery to me.

“Sans?”

 

_ You _

 

_What just happened?_

You think at first that you offended him, but that can’t be right. He was trying so hard to put you at ease; he’s been trying all day to help you relax. You’d finally gotten to dig for answers, and he seemed happy enough to give them. And then… he just withdrew. He didn’t seem angry, just… just downhearted.

You think to yourself, tracing back over everything you’ve seen of Sans, which isn’t much. Still, it doesn’t take you long to realize that he _is_ withdrawn: it’s a large part of his personality. You didn’t notice before because he’s friendly and funny, but sometimes he just seems to… shut off, to disappear from the world. Odd things will get to him, like that sun you drew on his Coke glass the day you met him, and suddenly he seems to be elsewhere, caught up in some inner world. On reflection, you start to worry that his inner world is a dark one.

Without meaning to, you find yourself climbing the steps, heading for the room Sans disappeared into, most likely his bedroom. You reach the door and twist your hands together for a moment, wondering if bothering him is the wrong thing to do. But then you think about the look of him as he retreated up the steps: he seemed so weary, lost, and alone.

You raise a fist and knock quietly at the door.

“yeah?” The voice inside sounds drawn-out, like it’s taking all the speaker’s energy just to force out that one syllable. Still, there’s an overlay of false cheerfulness to it, an attempt to make it sound normal and happy which completely fails to hide the fact that something is very wrong. It hurts your heart to hear it.

“Sans, it’s me,” you venture. “Can I come in?”

There’s a long silence from the room beyond the door. Then, “i’ll be out in a few, okay? just… just go have fun, and i’ll see you in a little bit.”

You hover outside Sans’s door for a moment, unwilling to leave but unsure what to do. Finally, you gather your courage and raise your fist again.

“Knock, knock,” you offer as you suit action to words.

You twist your fingers together nervously, waiting for a response. It takes a couple seconds to arrive.

“who’s there?”

“Panther.”

“… panther who?”

“Panther no panth, I’m going thwimming.”

“a-ha-ha!” There’s that laugh again, surprised to hear itself. There’s a slight rustling from the other side of the door, and then it clicks open. Sans stands in front of you, a bit bashfully, as if you’ve caught him doing something he shouldn’t.

“May I come in?” you ask again, quietly.

“might as well,” he answers with a wry smile, and you follow him into the room, closing the door behind you.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but the curtains are drawn, making the room seem dim and dreary. There’s a cluttered, dusty desk against the far wall, a treadmill with dirty clothes hanging on it, and a bed with no sheets… no, actually, it’s just that the sheets have been balled up and tossed on the floor, as if Sans had started to change his bedding and lost the will to do so halfway through. The floor is strewn with debris. The whole place smells like dirty socks.

Depression oozes from the walls.

Sans slumps down onto the mattress, back against the wall and knees drawn up to his chest. He gestures sardonically, smirking. “welcome to the master bedroom.” The lights in his eyes are much dimmer than you’re used to seeing them, and they’re flickering slightly, like candle flames. It makes him look anxious and sad.

You approach the bed and sit down beside him, close enough that your leg is pressed against his. You can sense that talking isn’t the way to go in this situation; Sans seems to want to keep whatever’s bothering him private, and you don’t want to push him or make him uncomfortable. You want him to feel better, not worse. What should you do?

Sans is giving you a bitter smile, but he’s also looking at you with wide eye sockets, his flickering pupils drinking in your features as if… as if he’s been living alone on an island and yours is the first face he’s seen in years.

God, how can he be so lonely in a house full of people?

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you put an arm around his shoulders and draw him to you. He’s tense for a few moments, surprised and uncertain, and then he shudders, hard. Holding him close to you, you can feel the tremor as it makes its way down his body. In its wake, Sans seems to melt into you. His arms come up and his fingers wrap themselves in your shirt, and he clings to you like a child. You lean back against the wall with Sans practically in your lap, and stroke the back of his skull, the back of his ribcage, his spine. You murmur simple, soothing things like, “I’m here,” and “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Sans doesn’t make a sound, but after a while you can feel a warm wetness seeping through your shirt where his face is buried in the crook between your neck and shoulder. You wish you could tell him it’s okay to cry, but something tells you you shouldn’t mention it. You keep holding him, stroking him, and murmuring small comforts, until his fingers release their grip on you and his arms relax, drifting limply downwards. His breathing has turned deep and even.

He’s asleep.

You continue to stroke him, marveling at the soft-yet-hard texture of his skull, unwilling to move or stop what you’re doing for fear he’ll wake up. Something tells you he needs whatever sleep he can get. You catch yourself sniffling, and that’s when you notice that your eyes feel hot and swollen, and the slightly crusty salt trails of dried tears decorate your cheeks. You’ve been crying, too.

_Oh, Sans..._

You sit on the bed with Sans asleep against you for what feels like a long time, but is probably only about fifteen minutes or so. He smells like ozone, the scent of magic, and petrichor, like the first drops of rain on dry dirt, and underneath that is a subtle, spicy musk that’s strangely human-like and distinctly male. His warm weight lulls you into a near-sleep state yourself, and you drift comfortably in and out of consciousness until you’re roused by clamorous feet pounding up the stairs and a loud voice proclaiming, “SANS! SANS, GET UP, YOU LAZYBONES! IT’S TIME TO OPEN OUR HOUSEWARMING GIFTS!” Papyrus knocks on the door thunderously.

Sans stirs sleepily against you, slow to wake. He makes a noise of confusion and lifts his head to blink blearily at you. Muzzy and unfocused, he ventures, “wha… ’m awake. you’re ah… nnn?” You giggle.

“Have a nice nap?” you ask him.

“mmm,” he hums, and sinks back against you, apparently intending to go back to sleep. Papyrus knocks again.

“SANS! SANS, I KNOW YOU ARE IN THERE BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT ANYWHERE ELSE! COME OUT, RIGHT NOW! I CANNOT OPEN PRESENTS WITHOUT YOU, AND OUR FRIENDS CANNOT STAY ALL NIGHT! THERE IS NOWHERE FOR THEM ALL TO SLEEP, AND SOME OF THEM HAVE TO WORK IN THE MORNING!”

Sans makes a noise of denial and snuggles closer to you. It seems he’s an obstinate sleeper. You shake him gently, and again he greets you with confusion and some disjointed syllables. You guess he wasn’t truly awake the first time, and this time is obviously no better. So, to help matters along, you take him by the shoulders and bodily sit him up. While he blinks owlishly and rubs at one of his eye sockets, you straighten his hoodie a bit so he doesn’t look too rumpled when he goes to rejoin the outside world. You reach around to the back of his neck to try and make the hood lie better, and suddenly his eyes blink open wide, and he jerks backwards and falls off the bed, hitting the floor with a startled squawk.

“‘Morning, sleepyhead,” you greet him, leaning over the edge of the bed to smile playfully at him.

“nngh?” he grunts gruffly, rubbing the back of his skull. He must have banged it on the floor when he fell. “checkers? what’s…”

Papyrus cuts him off by pounding on the door again. “SANS! BROTHER, IF YOU ARE NOT OUT HERE BY THE TIME I COUNT TO TEN, I AM COMING IN TO SHAKE YOU! I KNOW YOU HATE THAT!”

Sans twitches. You snicker. He turns to you.

“you wanna…”

“Follow you down in a minute, so we’re not seen leaving your room together?” You smirk at him.

Sans flushes shyly and rubs the back of his head. “uh-huh.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.” You lean back against the wall again as Sans stands up and heads for the door.

“paps, i’m up. i’m up, okay? stand back, i’m gonna open the door and i don’t wanna hit you with it again… or do i?”

 

_ Sans _

 

Opening the presents doesn’t take long. Not many people brought one, which is fine: what we really wanted was to see them all again. I’m not much for surprises, and my enjoyment of stuff, things, and etc. is pretty much limited to how comfortable they make me, how funny they are, and whether or not they’ll fit in the X-Box. Paps, on the other hand…

“SANS! SANS, LOOK! IT’S A TOASTER *AND* AN OVEN!”

I snicker. So does Checkers. She leans over to whisper to me.

“I dropped it when Papyrus picked me up. If it’s broken, let me know and we’ll exchange it.”

“sure,” I whisper back, trying not to think about the feeling of her breath ghosting across the side of my skull. Too bad I’m the worst at not thinking. Checkers… I still can’t believe… Did that really happen? I mean, _of course_ I had an emotional breakdown in the middle of a party. That’s just something I’ve come to expect from myself. (Sans, you impossible asshole.) What I mean is, did Checkers really hold me while I cried on her shoulder? God, that felt good. Didn’t realize how much I needed to be touched… Please don’t take that the wrong way. Paps hugs me sometimes, but I never let it last long. Too afraid he’ll get a better read on me than I want him to. Paps is the best thing in my life, and he deserves to be happy. And part of that is making sure he thinks I’m happy. So I tend to discourage hugs. He mostly shows his affection by nagging, anyway.

When Checkers pulled me against her and held on, something tight in me just… dissolved. I’m still reeling from the aftereffects of whatever weird relief I got from it all. I feel a little floaty and disconnected, but a little more able to face whatever comes next.

One problem, though: now I don’t know how to act around her. I’m ashamed that she saw me like that, weak and worthless. And, more than that, I’m afraid she’ll stay with me again, comfort and hold me again next time it happens. And if she does, I might come to depend on her, even to need her. And if I need her, then what’ll I do when she disappears?

‘Cause she will.

Everything does.

Anyway, the whole thing was a big emotional exhibitionist mess, and it all sorta feels like a dream to me. A nice dream, though… Stop it. Just stop. You don’t need anyone, and you certainly don’t deserve someone like Checkers. Don’t be a baby, and don’t foist your shit onto other people. They have their own problems. They can’t spend their time dealing with yours.

I’m looking at Checkers again and not paying as much attention to the proceedings as I should be, so when Paps tosses me a smallish package, it bounces off the side of my head. Ow. Everyone laughs except Toriel, who gasps, “Oh my goodness, are you alright?” Frisk, who’s sitting on my non-Checkers side, makes a grab for the package and snatches it out of the air. She almost drops it as soon as she catches it: it’s about the weight of a bowling ball, and I guess she wasn’t expecting that. Good thing I’ve got a thick skull. And that Frisk is so fast. She holds the package out to me, smirking.

I can feel a blush heating my face up. Gotta try and cover up my Checkers-centric behavior before anyone realizes why I was so distracted. I glare at Papyrus, who’s opening his mouth, getting ready to scold me. “geez, bro, no need to box my ears.”

Everyone laughs again. I glance around at them. Doesn’t look like they’ve noticed the connection between my head-in-the-clouds display and my new human friend, but it can be hard to tell with this crowd: some of them are pretty observant (as well as pretty discreet), and, let’s face it, I haven’t exactly been subtle. In fact, for someone whose middle name would be Subtlety if he _had_ a middle name, I’ve been… just… ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. How did this shit happen? C’mon, man, get it together.

I take the gift from Frisk and, before opening it, throw out another couple puns for good measure. “welp, no time like the present. let’s wrap this party up.” Paps groans. Checkers giggles. I blush again. Goddammit.

I tear open the wrapping.

It’s the ice cream maker.

I start to laugh, suddenly delighted. Checkers laughs with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> Almost all doors off the main part of any house are installed to open inwards. For whatever reason, the bedroom door at the end of the upstairs hall opens outwards. All houses have their little quirks…
> 
> Sans has been given this room so he can’t blockade himself inside. The questionable care of friends and family. :P


	6. In My Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which friends prove a balm against distress.

_ You _

 

After the housewarming party, you saw Papyrus at the café almost every day. He hadn’t liked the chili much and was steadfastly trying one menu item at a time, searching for something acceptable. It was a little sad to watch. So this morning, you’d cooked some spaghetti at your house and brought it to work with you. Papyrus’s delight when you announced that there was now spaghetti was a thing of beauty. But his perplexity when you told him he didn’t have to pay for it was an obstacle you hadn’t prepared for.

“BUT MISS (Y/N), WHEN YOU EAT A MEAL AT A RESTAURANT, YOU MUST PAY! OTHERWISE YOU WILL GET IN TROUBLE AND BE YELLED AT! AND HAVE TO WASH DISHES! AND THE DISHES ARE DIRTY AND GROSS! ALSO I DROPPED ONE AND IT BROKE!”

You have to suppress laughter. It’s not a funny story to Papyrus; it would hurt his feelings to realize it’s a funny story to you. Instead, you focus on the issue at hand. “Well, this spaghetti isn’t on the menu, see? So it doesn’t have a price. So it’s free.”

“BUT THE DISHES…”

You sit down in the booth opposite him and lean in, the better to reassure him. “I promise you won’t have to wash any dishes. I promise, okay? No one’s going to yell at you. I made this spaghetti myself, just for you. It’s a gift for my friend.”

At that, Papyrus’s face brightens. “I AM SO PLEASED TO HAVE YOU AS A FRIEND! THE GREAT PAPYRUS WILL NOT FORGET THE KINDNESS YOU HAVE DONE TODAY! NEXT TIME I COME, _I_ SHALL BRING _YOU_ SPAGHETTI!” He digs into your cooking with gusto, making happy noises and a bit of a mess. After a moment he looks up again, and around a mouthful of food, continues, “YOU ARE VERY KIND AND GOOD, ESPECIALLY FOR A HUMAN!” You blush a bit at the praise (though “for a human” was a bit insulting…?) and move to deny it awkwardly, but Papyrus continues, “SANS IS RIGHT ABOUT THAT. HE IS A VERY GOOD JUDGE OF CHARACTER, THAT BROTHER OF MINE.” You hesitate, your mind thrown off track for a moment.

_Sans talks about me? What else… No, don’t ask. You may not want to know._

“HE ALSO SAYS YOU ARE FUNNY AND SMART, AND I THINK HE IS RIGHT. IT IS A VERY GOOD THING THAT WE WERE ABLE TO BECOME BEST NEIGHBOR-FRIENDS BEFORE SOME LESSER NEIGHBOR TOOK YOUR BEST-FRIENDSHIP FOR THEMSELVES.”

“Uh… yes?” That last statement was a little obscure. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up with Papyrus’s thought processes. There’s something else that’s distracting you from the conversation, as well. “Sans thinks I’m funny and smart?” A warm glow is spreading slowly through your body at the thought. You’d hug yourself in happiness if you weren’t in public. You know you’re probably blushing, and you have to fight the urge to hide your face.

“OH, YES, MY BROTHER THINKS VERY HIGHLY OF YOU, AS DO I. IN FACT, HE WILL NOT SHUT UP ABOUT YOU. IT IS A LITTLE ANNOYING SOMETIMES. I ASK HIM TO COME HERE WITH ME EVERY DAY, BUT HE ALWAYS HAS SOMETHING ELSE TO DO INSTEAD.”

 _So why hasn’t he come to the café to visit me? I know he can’t be busy every day. Is he being considerate because he knows he shouldn’t bother me while I’m working?_ Papyrus, for all his wonderful traits, was a bit of a pest for a couple of days, until you’d started saving your lunch break for his arrival. Now you have a good half-hour to sit with him and catch up on the day’s news. Sans could be part of that, if he wanted. Or, wait, maybe… _Ohh, no,_ you think sadly to yourself. _I bet this is about the… the cuddling thing. Maybe he really_ doesn’t _want to see me._  
You find yourself missing the small skeleton suddenly, his relaxed attitude and his awful addiction to puns and his clever, kind eyes. You hope you haven’t damaged your relationship with him. You really thought… You swallow, trying to fight down the lump rising in your throat. You really thought you two were becoming good friends.

“Could you ask him again tomorrow?” you say to Papyrus. “Tell him I’d like to see him again?” You really would.

“OF COURSE I WILL ASK HIM AGAIN!” Papyrus gushes, thrilled at the request. “I KNOW HE WILL MAKE TIME TO COME IF I TELL HIM YOU WISH TO SEE HIM!”

 

_ Sans _

 

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Knew I couldn’t avoid her forever.

Paps is humming happily, doing something in the kitchen. Eh, he’s probably cleaning something. He does that when he’s wound up. And he’s always wound up when he comes back from visiting Checkers.

I just told him I’d go with him tomorrow.

What was I supposed to do? He practically begged me.

I can’t say no to my brother. Don’t know how he does it. It’s like some kind of superpower.

Plus, Checkers asked, too.

I feel a little squeeze in my chest, thinking about it. She wants to see me.

_She wants to see me._

The thought makes me absurdly happy, and nervous, and a little bit sad, too. Have you seen the news lately? Monster-human relations aren’t going so well. The monster rights talks fell apart again, and on top of that, we’ve had a baby boom; with all the extra space and hope for the future, it seems like folks have been soul-bonding left and right. With the number of monster births we’ve had recently, I’m starting to wonder how I failed to hear the fuckin’. Now, I’m one of the first in line to say that babies are always a good thing, but our population exploding like this, so soon after we surged up from the Underground in our thousands, is making a lot of humans nervous. I think, to some of them, it’s looking more like a secret invasion than it did when we’d just arrived. It’s not just in the news, it’s on the streets, too. This past week, I’ve caught a lot more humans looking at me with anxiety, fear, or even straight-up anger. True bigotry is very rare, but give the slightest hint of social or political support for it, and whatever serpents there are come crawling out of their damn holes to poison the minds of the fearful and turn every gathering of concerned citizens into a potential mob. That’s the downside of humans being so powerfully connected to each other: the possibility that the feelings and thoughts they share won’t be good ones. Paps hasn’t noticed, of course. To him, the world is nothin’ but good, and everyone in it is good, too.

But I’m not blind. And neither is Checkers. And it hurts to think she might catch some backlash because of all this.

‘Course, she’s already pallin’ around with Paps, and I’m not about to tell him he can’t see his friend anymore. So the real reason I haven’t been to see her is… well…

I’m afraid of her.

If I let myself care about her, she’s gonna break my heart.

Even if she’s okay with the problems that come with it, even if she decides I’m worth the trouble, the social crap she’ll have to deal with and my own ridiculous baggage, the world is so unpredictable. Over the years, I’ve come to expect the aching rhythm of having everything, losing it, getting it back again, having it ripped away, etc. I’ve seen friends die, seen _Paps_ die, and then seen them dicking around in Snowdin like none of it happened, and of course, to them, none of it did. I know this sounds nuts. Maybe I _am_ nuts. Maybe it’s all been a crazy dream.

Please let it all have been a dream.

That would mean that, this time, there’ll be no reset.

Every morning, I’m afraid to open my eyes, ‘cause one of these days I’ll be back in my bedroom in Snowdin, back in the Underground. Everything we’ve got here, it’ll be gone. Paps’ll be there, but for how long? I don’t know if I can lose him again. It doesn’t get easier. It doesn’t. I can’t even fucking grieve properly, ‘cause he keeps coming back. Ah, god, I just made that sound like a bad thing. What the hell is wrong with me? And then sometimes I grieve him while he’s right fucking here. So stupid.

Why am I such a mess? When will I get better? How long before I can look at my brother and not see him turning to dust in front of me? Before I can look at myself and say it’s okay to feel what I’m feeling? When will my feelings match my situation?

Will I ever be normal again?

And is it okay to burden Checkers with all my… my _Sans-ness?_

It’s been so long since a reset, much longer than it’s ever been before, and part of me is starting to hope that this is it, that the cycle is broken. But I’ve thought that before, too.

Hope is more dangerous even than Checkers is.

On the other hand, I can’t lie to myself about it: I’m really looking forward to seeing her again. Ever since that goofy adventure in the produce aisle, I’ve been drawn to her like iron to a magnet. My thoughts revolve around her, more often than not, and I find myself replaying parts of that day over and over in my mind: the funny faces she made as I teased her about the ice cream maker slip-up, her soft fingers gently exploring mine, her heartbeat pulsing against my ribcage as she held me while I cried, drawing an answering rhythmic throb from my soul that was like a heartbeat in its own right.

She held me in my weakness, and for a while, I felt whole.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

 

_ You _

 

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

What are you going to do now?

You deliver a plate of eggs and bacon to a young lady who’s nursing her coffee as she peruses the newspaper. She looks unhappy about whatever she’s reading. You’re too polite to try and read over her shoulder, but you want to. The infamous curiosity strikes again. Instead of invading her personal space, you give her a nice smile as you lay her food down, and you hope it doesn’t look too much like a grimace.

“Thanks,” she mutters, not looking up.

“Enjoy,” you say chirpily. At least your voice sounds normal.

Life goes on, of course. You still have a job to do, and the issue at hand can wait a while: it’s important, but not urgent. There is a difference.

Correction: it’s not urgent _yet._

You wish Roxy was here. You could really use a hug from a friend, but it’s her day off. Today it’s Rob in the kitchen, along with Harriett. You glance towards the swinging kitchen doors and catch him watching you through the small circular windows. He winks at you. You frown at him and shake your head. He laughs. You need to find a way to convince him you’re serious about being uninterested. He’s handsome and he knows it, and he seems to think you’re just playing hard-to-get. Yes, he looks good, but his personality is shallow, thoughtlessly judgmental, and aggressive. He forms strong opinions without getting all the facts first, and then he gets angry when people disagree with him. How can you tell him you don’t like talking to him without hurting his feelings or causing conflict in the workplace? You don’t want to upset him; he’s annoying, not evil. You suppose you’ll have to just keep turning him down until he gets it.

Rob forms his hands into a little heart, smiling at you through the window. You scowl at him and turn your back. Maybe upsetting him _is_ an option.

The little bell over the front door jingles, and you look up.

“MISS (Y/N)! I HAVE BROUGHT MY BROTHER TODAY! AND ALSO I BROUGHT YOU SPAGHETTI!”

The familiar voice and the smiling face that comes with it are more welcome today than ever. You can feel your eyes start to tear up immediately.

“checkers, what’s wrong?” Sans pokes his head out from behind his gangly brother, eyes wide and full of concern. _Sans._ You’d really wanted to see him, and you’d wanted to make it a happy occasion, but abruptly all your distress has started attacking you at once. The possibility of having a shoulder to cry on is somehow suddenly making shoulder-crying a necessity.

“Guys,” you gasp, and throw your arms around Papyrus’s waist. Papyrus makes an unhappy worried noise and wraps one of his arms around you. (The other is clutching a large Tupperware container which is presumably filled with spaghetti.) You let out a strangled sob and reach out blindly, pulling Sans into the embrace. You don’t even care that you’re making a scene. The smaller skeleton seems startled for a moment, but then he reaches around you and runs his hand comfortingly over your back in small circles.

“checkers?” Sans repeats. “what’sa matter? what happened?”

You sniffle and release your friends, wiping at your eyes and smiling wanly. “Let me take my break and we’ll go around back.”

“ok,” Sans says quietly. He lays his bony hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently. You give him a grateful smile. Then you walk back to the kitchen to shout at Harriett that you’re taking your break so she knows to watch your tables.

Sans and Papyrus follow you out to the alleyway behind the café where the employees often take their breaks when the weather is nice. It’s kept relatively clean and there’s a picnic table set up back there, equipped with ashtrays for the smokers. The weather has shifted in the past couple of days and a warm front has come through, bringing the temperature up into the high fifties and making everything feel springlike. Though Christmas is right around the corner, you can pretend for a while that summer is coming.

You step onto the bench, have a seat up on the table, and tilt your head back to look up at the small white clouds scudding across the blue sky. Sans and Papyrus sit on the table as well, one on each side of you. You relax a little at the wordless show of support. Then Papyrus ruins it.

“IF YOU DID NOT WISH FOR SPAGHETTI, YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME SO!” You snort with laughter.

“No, no, Papyrus, it’s not that! Hee hee…” You clutch at your mouth with a hand, as if to hold in your giggles. Then you take a deep, shaky breath, feeling lighter after the laughter. “My roommate’s been arrested again. DUI. She’s a repeat offender, and this time she crashed her car into somebody’s house, and then the cops found a bag of heroin under the driver’s seat.”

Sans hisses in sympathy. “ooh, sorry to hear that. you gonna try and bail her out?”

“Oh, no way, I don’t have the money and I don’t even like her,” you admit. “She’s not gonna get away with it, though, and she’s probably going to jail for a few years. And without her, I can’t afford the apartment. I’m gonna lose my home.” At that, the tears start flowing again. Sans hesitantly puts his arm around your shoulders. You lean into him, turning it into a hug, crying into his shoulder as he strokes your back again, and you’re reminded of the episode at the housewarming party, except that, of course, now the roles are reversed. After a bit of uncertainty, he tightens his arms around you, and the pressure and warmth of it comfort you enough to completely dissolve the lid you’ve been trying to keep on your emotions. “I kn-know it’s n-not a disaster,” you sob, burying your face against him, “B-but I’ve lived there so l-long, and I don’t w-want to l-leave…” Papyrus suddenly piles into your back, throwing his long arms around you and Sans both and sobbing loudly.

“DON’T WORRY, MISS (Y/N), SANS AND I WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU!”

You stop crying with a startled sniff. “Huh?”

“YOU WILL COME TO LIVE WITH US, OF COURSE! OUR HOUSE IS YOURS NOW, TOO!”

“paps, don’t you think you should ask her instead of telling her? besides, finding a new place isn’t really the problem…”

You rub at your swollen eyes, sniffling, as the brothers bicker mildly. It might sound silly, but you love your apartment. You grew up in it; your mother disappeared with some guy in a Camaro when you were very young, and your father passed away a couple of years ago, and though life there hasn’t always been good, it’s full of the sorts of childhood memories that you aren’t ready to leave behind. Summer vacations in the large, well-tended courtyard, reading books all day in the grass under the big maple tree. The worn green carpet behind the couch where you’d lay and color while your father watched old movies or football. The dark, mysterious basement where you used to hide behind the furnace, pretending your toys were brave explorers in a hostile land, and occasionally jumping out to scare the neighbors as they came down to do their laundry. (Okay, maybe it wasn’t as fun for them as it was for you, but it’s still a good memory.) And the faded crayon drawing low on the kitchen wall, a bunch of colorful flowers surrounding the phrase, “i lov dab,” which your father had been unable to be angry with you about even though you’d broken the “not on the wall” rule. He’d also been unable to clean it off. If you have to move out, you’ll never see that drawing again.

But your landlady will.

She probably won’t be too happy about that.

A small smile pulls up one corner of your mouth. Maybe you should draw a few more before you leave.

But, instead, you’ll probably buy a Magic Eraser and… and scrub the drawing away.

You can’t force things not to change.

But… but maybe you can find a new roommate.

“Okay,” you say firmly, standing up on the bench. The skeleton brothers stop their bickering and look at you attentively. You spin to face them and pace up and down the bench like a general addressing her troops. “I don’t have any money stashed away right now ‘cause it went to pay for a new transmission last month…” Sans hisses again and gives you a commiserating look. “…but rent isn’t due ‘till the beginning of next month,” you continue. “I’ll ask Mrs. Griggs if I can have an extension. I don’t think she’ll agree, but it’s worth a shot. At worst, I have about two weeks to find a new roommate, and we’d better plan for the worst. Guys?”

“YES, MISS (Y/N)?”

“with ya, checkers.”

“Do you have plans tomorrow?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> I had to switch between past and present tense at the beginning of this chapter in order to set it up as “some time later.” Transitioning between the two is reeeeeally awkward!
> 
> I see a lot of Undertale fanfics that assume people don’t have reasons for their bigotry, that all bigots are just hateful people. I’m’a try and avoid that, as that sort of assumption is bigotry in its own right. So I plan to do my best to represent the fear/hatred dynamic as I’ve observed it: a few hardcore haters using practical anxieties to manipulate the masses, more often than not for the sake of gaining power, either political or social.
> 
> Will Sans ever be normal again? Well, that really depends on your definition of normal. Personally, I think his ongoing reaction to what he’s been through makes perfect sense and he’s as normal as can be. :)


	7. Let it Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a hard day’s work is made pleasant by the presence of friends, and publicly posting your phone number has an unplanned-for consequence.

_ You _

 

It’s almost dinnertime, and you’ve skipped lunch, so you’re not surprised to hear your stomach gurgle demandingly as you finish taping up the last of your flyers.

“Roommate wanted: Spacious old-fashioned apartment, 2br plus study, well-cared-for with beautiful courtyard, swimming pool, and friendly neighbors. Pictures on request. Applicants must be law-abiding. $410 a month plus half of utilities.”

Underneath, you’d printed your cell phone number vertically several times and cut the end of the flyers into little strips, allowing people who were interested to tear a piece off and take your phone number with them.

You stand back, look at the flyer, and sigh, a little contentedly (a job well-done deserves a contented sigh), and a little… well… NOT. The apartment is expensive, and utilities aren’t even included. Most people with that sort of income aren’t going to want to share space; they can get a place of their own for the same price. It won’t be as nice, but it’ll be theirs. You sigh again, unhappily this time. You can’t afford the place; you never could. But you’re not ready to let it go.

You spin, startled, at a tap on your shoulder. Sans is standing behind you, hands out for more flyers. He’s been ‘porting in and out all day, spreading flyers not only throughout your town but also posting them in the neighboring ones. You’ve been caught off-guard by him so many times you’ve lost count: Sans moves almost silently and has a tendency to lurk where you’re not expecting him. You’d tell him to stop, but it seems to entertain him, and you kind of enjoy the rush of adrenaline you get when he surprises you with his sudden appearances. He’s breathing heavily now and looks sweaty and limp; apparently there’s a limit to how many times he can teleport in a day. (Though, according to him, he’s not really teleporting. You asked him how it worked this morning when the flyer campaign started, and he rattled off some technical explanation that contained a lot of scientific jargon you didn’t understand very well but which seemed to boil down to one word: wormholes. He was unusually animated while he was talking about it, and his eyes were lit up like a child’s when you hit upon their favorite topic. … Sans is a nerd. It’s sort of adorable.)

You hold up your empty hands. “That’s it. We’re done.”

Sans slumps against the wall next to the flyer you just hung up. “thank god.” He mops at his brow with the sleeve of his hoodie. You spare a moment to wonder how a skeleton can sweat. It’s probably related to the way he flushes, you answer yourself. Blood, breath, sweat, body heat… despite the lack of apparent body systems, he’s got a surprising number of human-like physical traits. You keep forgetting he’s made less of matter and more of magic.

You lean against the wall next to him, close enough for your shoulders to touch. He tips his head back and stares at the sky. “You look exhausted,” you say to him.

Sans blows out a breath. “apparently ‘frequent flyer’ ain’t my style.”

You laugh. “Well, I really appreciate all the help. We’re going to have to work fast if I want to have a hope of finding someone in time.”

“checkers, if you need it, paps and i can lend you a little money, just to cover this month’s rent.”

“No,” you say, a little sadly. “Thank you, but no. You’ve done so much for me already, and, you know, maybe this is a sign.” You lean into him a little bit. He leans back. “I love my place,” you admit. “I really do. There are a lot of great memories there. Did I tell you I grew up in that apartment?”

“you did, yeah,” Sans reminds you.

“I thought I might’ve. Just me and my dad, after Mom left. He worked so hard for me, and then he came home and helped me with my homework and stuff. It took a lot out of him, I know it did, but he never once complained.” You look up at the sky, enjoying the sunshine. “I probably should’ve thanked him for all that.” The unseasonably warm air breathes gently across you, blowing your hair into your face. You make a grumpy noise and try to brush it back behind your ears to get it out of the way. Once your vision is cleared, you notice Sans’s hand is partially raised. You blink at him. He puts his hand down hurriedly.

“What?” you ask.

He blushes just a little bit. “nothin’.” Then he shrugs and continues with a grin. “somethin’ on your face.”

“Oh yeah?” You cock an eyebrow, amused.

“looked like a nose.”

You snort laughter into your hand. Then you huff out a breath. “I want to stay there. But… I know I can’t afford it. I haven’t been able to afford it since Dad died.” Sans’s expression shifts, his grin fading.

“checkers…”

You continue, anxious to avoid more commiserations. You’ve had enough of those, these past couple of years. “Trying to hang onto this place has eaten into my savings, and it seems like every time I get some money stashed away, something happens that needs to be paid for. Like car trouble. That’s the worst.” You prod at a loose piece of asphalt with your toe. It pops out of the crack it was sitting in, and you kick it away. “I feel like maybe this is it. Like I need to let this place go. Move on. You know?”

Sans makes a face. “after all that work? no way. we’ll find you a roomie, ok? i’d do it myself, but paps and i just got the house…” He looks conflicted for a moment, as if he’s actually considering it.

“Oh, please, no,” you exclaim, waving your hands in denial. “You stay in that house with Papyrus, okay? I’d feel awful if I messed up your lives like that.”

“ok, well, don’t worry, anyway. we’ll make it work.”

“Thanks, CB.” You smile at Sans. He grins crookedly back. Then he reaches up to ruffle your hair. You splutter and slap at his hand. He chuckles.

“c’mon. paps is gonna meet us at vita felice.”

* * * * *

Vita Felice is a family-owned Italian restaurant on the north end of town. You and Sans walk there, since it’s only about a mile from where you hung the final flyer, it’s a beautiful day for the time of year, and Sans looks like another ‘port might kill him. You walk slowly, chatting while you keep a surreptitious eye on him. He won’t admit it, but it’s obvious he’s overdone it. He’s still sweating, but when you loop your arm through his, his body temperature seems significantly cooler than usual. He’s also shaking slightly, though when you inquire, he passes it off as being tired and hungry. You don’t want to clue him in to the fact that you’re worried about him, so you keep your arm in his and keep the pace slow, and after a while he seems to start feeling a little better.

Boys.

You didn’t ask him to wreck himself helping you. But you can’t help feeling a little guilty, anyway. Maybe treating him to a nice dinner will bolster your bony friend.

The restaurant, like the café, is rather busy at this time of year, even on a weeknight like tonight. Papyrus has already claimed a table and waves energetically when you and Sans enter the building. It’s an unimpressive-looking place, part of a lower-tier strip mall, a simple brick facade on the outside and a plain, unimpressive inside. But it’s clean, the staff is friendly, and the food is delicious. Vita Felice is one of your town’s best-kept secrets: visitors almost never choose to eat here, but it’s been beloved of the locals for over twenty years.

Your dad used to take you here on your birthday.

You lean into Sans a little as the two of you amble over to the table. He’s feeling a little warmer to you now, and is no longer trembling. You, however, are inexplicably more tired than you were a few minutes ago. You flop into a chair opposite Papyrus with relief. Sans slides in next to you, matching your sigh. Of course, Papyrus doesn’t seem tired at all. Does he ever run out of energy?

“MISS (Y/N)! SANS! WE HAVE COMPLETED A LONG DAY OF IMPORTANT WORK, AND IT IS TIME FOR CELEBRATION! AND YET ALMOST TWENTY MINUTES HAVE PASSED SINCE I OBTAINED A TABLE FOR US! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I HAVE NEVER HAD SPAGHETTI HERE! I HOPE IT IS DELICIOUS!”

“‘course it’ll be delicious,” Sans replies. “this is real italian food, not some cheap impasta.”

“SANS!” Papyrus scolds, while you chuckle. “MUST YOU MAKE PUNS EVERY TIME WE GO SOMEWHERE NEW?”

“Well, if you want your first impressions to be correct ones…” you interject cheerfully.

“yeah, paps, don’t you think you’re spaghettin’ a rotini bit testy-roli?”

“SANS, OH MY GOD!” Papyrus cries, and throws his wadded straw wrapper at his brother. Sans ducks, snickering.

“Don’t you think ‘testy-roli’ was a bit farfalle-fetched?” you ask Sans mischievously. He blinks at you, eyes wide. Then a delighted smile spreads across his face.

“you’re rotellin’ me!” He makes a silly face at you. You stick your tongue out at him. He reciprocates, to your shock. Sans has a tongue? It’s not much like a human tongue: it’s the same basic shape and size, but Sans’s tongue is light blue and translucent and seems strangely delicate because of it.

“You have a tongue?” you ask, out loud this time.

“uh, yeah,” Sans says, a little surprised. He shoots you a small, mischievous smile, with the tip of his tongue poking out from between his teeth. With his tongue there, providing contrast, you notice his canine teeth are slightly longer than human canines, almost like stubby little fangs. Unexpectedly, that slightly wicked look on his face makes your heart skip a beat. Sans continues, “we both have tongues.”

Papyrus chimes in cheerfully, “THAT’S RIGHT! HOW DO YOU THINK WE TALK?”

“or taste?” Sans takes a sip of his Coke.

“I don’t know. I’ve never tasted you,” you tease.

This time, Papyrus breaks into uncontrolled cackling. Sans, in contrast, chokes on his drink and, once he’s recovered sufficiently, grabs his hood and pulls it over his face. Belatedly, it occurs to you that what you said could be considered flirting.

“Sans?” you venture, putting a hand on his arm. His hood turns towards you, and you can see his face is brightly flushed. He smiles at you, but it looks a little forced. Your stomach roils with sudden regret. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend or anything.” What could have prompted this sort of reaction? It was just a joke. You’re pretty sure he _knows_ it was just a joke.

“aww, checkers,” Sans replies, fiddling with his jacket’s zipper. “you didn’t say anything wrong. it was funny. i just… uh… n-never mind.” He keeps his hood up, but now he’s smiling more genuinely. You reach out and tug his hood back down.

Wow.

He’s blushing so furiously that pink is creeping down his neck vertebrae.

Sans rubs the back of his skull, grinning shyly. “don’t worry. i know it was tongue-in-cheek.”

“Argh!” You laugh. “Okay, you win!”

Sans leans back in his chair with a satisfied air. “don’t feel bad. it’s im-pesto-ble to out-pun me. i’m sansational.”

You laugh, relieved. No harm done, apparently. “And so modest, too.”

“true, true. i’m also the best at modesty.”

“SANS, YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THAT NO ONE IS MORE MODEST THAN THE GREAT PAPYRUS.”

You and Sans laugh. Then your phone rings, and though you’d much rather turn it off and continue bantering with your friends, this might be someone inquiring about the flyers, and you don’t want to miss a chance at finding a roommate.

You pull your cell out and answer it. “Hello?”

“Hey, (Y/N), I see you’re looking for a roommate.”

“Uhh…” Whoever this is, he’s talking to you very familiarly. You suspect this is someone you know. “Yeah. Who is this?”

The voice on the other end sounds a little hurt and annoyed. “It’s Rob. Rob. You know.”

Shoot! The flyers have backfired. Now your obnoxious coworker has your phone number.

“Oh, Rob, sorry, your voice sounds different on the phone.” Also, you weren’t expecting him to call you. But his weird brain is probably telling him you’ve been waiting for him to call you all day. You rub your face. “This isn’t a good time, can we talk about this later?”

“C’mon, (Y/N), I know you need a roommate, and I’m offering. I’ll even pay all the utilities. How does that sound?”

“Sorry, I don’t think you’re what I’m looking for in a roommate.”

“How about I pay all the rent, too? I can do it, you know. I have the money.”

“Bye, Rob.”

You thumb the “end” button as the voice on the other end transitions from friendly to angry. You’re not sure, but you think you hear the word “cunt” tinnily issuing from the phone right before you hang up.

Sans is staring at you. He looks concerned. “what was that about?” he asks.

“My coworker, Rob,” you huff irritably. “He won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I’m gonna have to do something about him soon; now he has my phone number.”

“this guy’s been bothering you?” Sans looks a lot more serious than you think the situation warrants. “for how long?”

“Almost since I’ve known him. He got the job about a year ago, so I guess it’s been that long.” The server comes to take your orders and you all take a moment to make your requests. Once you’re (relatively) alone again, you continue. “He’s never done anything threatening, or, you know… touched me, or anything. I just can’t seem to get him to stop asking me out, and…” Your voice drops a little, and you realize you feel ashamed, though you’re not sure of what. “I think he’s getting creepier.”

Sans makes a thoughtful noise, watching your expressions as if he’s gleaning more from them than from what you’re saying. How can Sans’s close attention make you feel safe and special while Rob’s just makes you feel oppressed?

“IT IS CLEAR THAT THIS ROB FELLOW DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO TREAT A LADY,” Papyrus complains. “THE GREAT PAPYRUS WILL HAVE WORDS WITH HIM, PROBABLY TOMORROW WHEN I COME TO VISIT YOU, IN ORDER TO CONVINCE HIM TO BE MANNERLY IN THE FUTURE.”

You smile and shake your head slightly. “Papyrus, I think he probably knows how; he’s just not interested in practicing good manners.”

“WELL, THAT IS EXCEEDINGLY FOOLISH! HOW CAN HE BE A GENTLEMAN IF HE DOES NOT USE HIS MANNERS?”

“you tell ‘im, bro,” Sans encourages, sounding pleased. Suddenly, you’re convinced Sans is the one who taught Papyrus to be a gentleman, or at least a very Papyrus-y approximation thereof. You glance at Sans, who’s sprawled in his chair and is tilting it back onto its rear legs, his expression a strange combination of laid-back and preoccupied. Is Sans older than Papyrus? You get the feeling he is. How much older? What else don’t you know about your skeleton friends?

“checkers,” Sans interrupts your train of thought, “what makes you say he’s getting creepier?” He still looks preoccupied, and you wonder why. The Rob thing is a simple problem; it doesn’t seem to you to merit this much thought.

“Well, for example, he just took my phone number off the flyer, and now I guarantee he’s going to be calling me all the time. I’ll have to block his number. Plus, he offered to be my roommate, which is NOT HAPPENING, by the way, and when I said ‘no’ he offered to pay ALL the utilities, and ALL the rent. He basically expected me to agree to move in with him.” You make a disgusted face. The phone rings. You check the number. It’s Rob again. You turn it off.

Sans is still ruminating, his expression difficult to read. Then he drops his chair back onto the ground with a thump. “checkers, you need to report him.”

You grimace. “I don’t want to get him in trouble, I just want him to leave me alone.”

“it’s not about punishing him. this isn’t a safe situation.”

“I think you’re making too big a deal out of this.”

Sans fiddles with his zipper. “well,” he says after a moment, “you know him better than i do. just…” He looks up, meeting your eyes. “just be careful, ok? in this kind of situation, things can go from ok to awful real fast.”

“I promise,” you agree.

“and keep the cops on your speed dial.”

“Will you quit worrying?!”

“never.”

* * * * *

Sans and Papyrus walk you home. Sans offers to ‘port you and his brother both, but you can see he still looks tired, and you don’t want to ask any more of him than you have already. The brothers stop at the front of the apartment politely, but of course you invite them up. You don’t know if they care for alcohol, but you’ve got a couple things you could offer, and more importantly, this is the first day you’ve spent hanging out with them, and it’s been wonderful. You’re not ready for it to end.

“Well, this is what we’re fighting for,” you announce, dramatically swinging your door open wide.

“WOWIE! SANS, SANS, LOOK! IT’S SO BIG AND CLEAN!” Papyrus dashes into your apartment and starts picking things up and examining them. A lifetime’s worth of accumulated artifacts is now subjected to close scrutiny. As the tall skeleton bounces hyperactively from one item to another, here examining a lamp with a Peter Pan shadow on the lampshade, there fondling a carved wooden fish (at least, it was supposed to be a fish!), his short brother ambles through the doorway, looking around with a pleasingly impressed expression.

“pretty nice, checkers.”

“Thanks.” You’re glad Sans and Papyrus seem to appreciate your home. You wouldn’t want them to think that all the work you asked them to do today was for nothing. “You guys want something to drink?”

“you got coke? and… uh… and maybe lemons?”

“OOH, WHAT DO YOU HAVE?” Interestingly, Papyrus immediately grasps that you mean alcohol, while Sans seems to be surprised when you start listing adult drinks.

“I’ve got some nice red wine, which I plan to have a glass of, and some of the Glenlivet if you want something strong, some Grey Goose vodka, some Drambuie, uhh… I’ve got Kahlúa, I can make a White Russian if you want…”

“I WOULD LOVE A WHITE RUSSIAN, IF YOU WOULDN’T MIND!” Papyrus sounds delighted. You’re a bit discombobulated; for some reason, it hadn’t occurred to you that Papyrus might be familiar with alcoholic beverages.

“you got tomato juice?” Sans still sounds surprised: ohh, you get it. He didn’t think you were much of a drinker. You’re not, but when you _are_ in the mood for a drink, you want the right one.

“Unfortunately, no: I don’t care much for Bloody Marys,” you reply, guessing (correctly, it turns out) what he’s getting at.

“then i’ll take some of the glenlivet, thanks. no ice.”

You grin. “Sure thing.” You pour one drink, mix another, and pour a glass of wine for yourself. The three of you sit in the living room for a while, chatting comfortably. It’s nice to have people you care about around again. Really, you think to yourself, it’s not so much about the place you live. _This_ is what home is all about.

You and Sans have just begun to build the foundation for a banter session when there’s a knock at the door. You excuse yourself and get up to answer it, but of course Papyrus gets up to follow you, which induces Sans to come along, as well. Since three people are two too many to answer a door, you gesture to them to stand back a bit. Sans complies. Papyrus crowds closer curiously. You roll your eyes and open the door.

“Mrs. Griggs?” It’s a little late for your landlady to be up. Mrs. Griggs is an elderly widow who prefers to spend her nights in quiet solitude. She’s generally in bed by nine, and it’s past eight now, which means she’s not just passing by. She’s made a special trip up here to talk to you.

“(Y/N), I’m sorry to intrude at this hour, but I need to speak to you.”

“Sure,” you reply. “What is it?” You’d ask her to come in and sit down, but Mrs. Griggs always rejects the invitation. She’s allowed by the renter’s agreement to inspect the apartment, but only after giving you warning of that intention at least two weeks in advance. She takes her role as landlady so seriously that she won’t allow herself to look at your place without the two-week-warning, even under invitation.

Mrs. Griggs looks uncomfortable and unhappy. “Dear, you know I think well of you. Your father was a valued member of our community…” You suppress an eye roll. Your dad was a helpful and friendly man and was well-liked by the neighbors, but “valued member of the community” sounds so official. It’s just like Mrs. Griggs to use a phrase like that; she always behaves as if she’s being judged according to her profession, even during friendly chats. “And I’ve known you since you were knee-high,” your landlady continues. “I don’t want to cause any hurt feelings…” Uh oh, this doesn’t sound good. “…and I know you mean well. But you’ve been late with your rent quite frequently in the past few years…” You open your mouth. You’re not sure what you’re going to say, so it might be a good thing that Mrs. Griggs cuts you off. “I know it’s not your fault, but we do have regulations about this sort of thing.” So this is about her turning you down for an extension of time to make the rent payment? Somehow, you feel like there’s more to it than that. “And now there’s the thing with your roommate…”

Now you do interject. “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Griggs, I’m trying to find a new roommate right now. I’m sure I can have the money for you by the time it’s due.” But Mrs. Griggs waves her hand, forestalling you.

“That’s not what this is about, dear. You know I bent the rules to allow you to have a roommate in the first place. Officially all those who live in this community have to go through me.”

“I know, Ma’am,” you answer quietly, dipping your head in shame.

“But now she’s in prison… _prison,_ (Y/N)… and this will reflect on our community as a whole.” You swallow hard. You hadn’t thought of that. “And now,” Mrs. Griggs continues, “These new friends of yours…”

“What?” _Oh, no. Oh, no, she is NOT doing this!_ You start to tremble, and grasp one forearm with the opposite hand to stop it.

“These monsters… I know as well as anyone that there are plenty of good monsters out there…” _There don’t seem to be any BAD ones, you… you HAG!_ “… but honey, these are the nicest apartments in town, and I have to maintain that image if I want to keep that reputation intact. On top of your roommate being arrested for drugs, now there are these monsters coming and going, and, well… I just don’t want people to start thinking this is _that_ sort of place.” You’re feeling an awful combination of anger and shame: shame because you set yourself up for this, and you know you’ve not been the best tenant, and anger because Sans and Papyrus don’t deserve to be considered “that sort of place” people.

“mrs. griggs, right?” Sans somehow eels his way around you to stand in front of your landlady, his hand outstretched. “i’m sans. nice to meet ya.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Sans,” Mrs. Griggs says politely, shaking his offered hand, but not without a little bit of hesitation.

“yeah, sorry, me and my bro were just leaving,” Sans offers, “and we won’t be coming back, so you don’t have to worry about us being around, all right?”

“Sans!” you object as, in the background, you hear Papyrus make an unhappy noise. Sans holds up a hand, cutting you off. He doesn’t look at you: all his attention is focused on Mrs. Griggs.

“think you could see your way to overlooking our presence, just this once?”

Mrs. Griggs smiles sadly. “I see what you’re doing, Sans, and I can tell you’re a nice boy, but this isn’t just about you and your brother. (Y/N) has a poor track record, and under the circumstances I can’t ignore it, especially considering that she needs a roommate to afford her apartment, which is technically against the rules, and that her previous choice was such a poor one is a matter for concern.” Mrs. Griggs leans around Sans to look at you. Sans continues to avert his face from you. You wonder what’s going on in his head. “I’m sorry, (Y/N). This apartment is not a good fit for you.” _Maybe we should date other people,_ you think bitterly. Shame and anger are still competing inside you for dominance, but anger is slowly winning out. If Mrs. Griggs hadn’t brought up your monster friends, you’d feel differently, but that last point she’d made was a low blow, and that sort of prejudice, especially concerning people you care about, isn’t something you’re able to calmly swallow. “Take an extra month to find a new place,” Mrs. Griggs says kindly. No, nicely. Nice and kind are two different things. And you know, from long association with her, that the offer is made in a spirit of guilt, through Mrs. Griggs’s need to convince herself that she’s still a good person. You feel almost insulted at the offer, knowing that when she made it she was thinking of herself, not of you. After all these years of knowing Mrs. Griggs, this is what you get in the end: a goodbye that’s pleasantly-offered, but insincere.

“That won’t be necessary,” you say quietly, and possibly a bit coldly. “I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Griggs offers once more. “It was nice to have you with us.” You suppress the urge to scoff, and force a goodbye for the landlady around the painful lump rising in your throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   **~ Author’s Note ~**  
> 
> 
> Spaghetti. Rotini. Testaroli. Farfalle. Rotellini. Know your pastas. :P
> 
> No, Rob, no you don’t have the money. You’re just too dumb to realize you can’t make this work.
> 
> Sans’s attention towards you is different than Rob’s because he’s seeing you as a person, as opposed to Rob, who sees you as an object.


	8. To Burn Down a World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a combination of grief and nightmares leads to a slightly awkward morning.

_ Sans _

 

We hold Checkers while she cries. Again. She doesn’t deserve this; she’s a good girl and she doesn’t deserve it. I tried to argue with the Griggs lady, but when I got more demanding so did she, and then I started to raise my voice and Checkers put her hand on my arm, and when she touched me the frisson shut down my brain. Goddammit; I really am too close to this girl. But at this point I don’t know how to be any farther away from her. I stayed away for more than a week, and I was pretty ok with it, but in the past couple days of being around her, I’ve become completely…

Addicted.

Shit.

I think my yelling scared her a little; I don’t often get angry and I don’t think Checkers has ever seen me that upset. I’m feeling pretty guilty about the face she made. I know when I get serious about stuff, something about it seems to make people nervous, but I hope Checkers knows I’d never hurt Mrs. Griggs. She’s a weak old human lady. Takin’ a shot at her wouldn’t be any kind of fair. So instead, we went back into the apartment, and Checkers broke down and started sobbing.

We’re all sitting on the couch, with Checkers between me and Paps. I’m running my hand over her back in little circles while she cries into my clavicle. Paps is hugging us both and looks like he’s about to cry, himself. ‘Course, Paps never could stand silence, so he eventually decides to break it.

“DON’T WORRY, MISS (Y/N), YOU WILL COME TO LIVE WITH US! WE WILL TURN THE STUDY INTO A BEDROOM! SANS NEVER STUDIES, ANYWAY!”

Checkers giggles and sniffles at the same time. She pulls away from me, wiping her eyes, smiling weakly. “Thanks, guys. I might just take you up on that, at least for a little while.” She looks around the apartment, taking what seems like a last look at the place she’s lived all her life.

“checkers…” I start, but then I can’t figure out how to finish. _I’m sorry_ isn’t enough, _it’ll be okay_ isn’t true, and I can’t come up with a way to help her keep her place without resorting to intimidation or blackmail, and like I said, I’m not gonna seriously take on a little old lady. “tell us how to help,” I finish. “anything you need. honestly.”

Checkers smiles again. “I could use some more wine,” she quips. That’s my girl. I take her glass from the coffee table and move to stand up, but she’s hanging onto my hoodie and when I move, her hands tighten, seemingly unconsciously. It just about breaks my heart. I hand the glass to Paps instead, and he goes to refill it, while I pull Checkers back into me. She leans against my chest and sighs. I’m struck suddenly by the amount of physical contact I’ve had with Checkers, and by the fact I’m getting pretty comfortable with it. Checkers doesn’t seem to be a touchy-feely person, on the whole, but I’m starting to realize that for some reason her boundaries are much less strict where I’m concerned. She’s always touching me, leaning on me, taking my arm, etc. Dunno why she does it. She knows Paps better than she knows me, and he loves to touch and hug people, so why me? And, uh, why don’t I mind it?

After a moment I realize I’ve started carding my fingers through her hair.

It’s so soft.

It smells really good, too.

I think…

Uhh…

I think I may have a little crush.

Paps comes back with the wine, and Checkers sits up, pulling away from me, to take it. I let her go, of course, but I have to concentrate to do it. My body just seems to want to stay in contact with hers, and I have to fight to keep from clinging to her. I can’t believe myself right now. My friend needs help and support, and I’m… I’m just…

Am I taking advantage of this?

God, please don’t let that be the case. I really care about Checkers, and it’s killing me to see her in pain like this. I just want to make her feel better. So why is holding her making me so… so happy?

Suddenly I’m questioning my own intentions. What was I doing there, running my fingers through her hair like that? Petting her? What the hell, Sans? Are you fucking _hitting on her?_ At a time like this? No, no, I was just trying to make her feel better. The petting was completely unintentional. Besides, I don’t know much about what humans find attractive, but they’re so cute themselves that I’m pretty sure they’re not gonna be into a frickin’ skeleton. Even other monsters have a hard time with us. It’s not just because of the way we look, but that’s definitely part of it. So no, I wasn’t hitting on her. I don’t like to do anything unless I know it’s gonna go my way. And this just… isn’t.

I feel a pain in my chest so sharp it radiates through my whole body.

Checkers finishes her wine. She’s looking a little better. I prevent myself from making a _whining_ pun. Go me.

Then she shouts, “Fuck it, let’s get hammered!”

Holy. Shit.

I don’t know what to tell ya, except maybe this: I tried to stop her, but she’s damn slippery. Anyway, before the night’s out she’s hanging out the window in her underwear, threatening to burn the place down. Not gonna lie, I’m pretty impressed. She’s usually such a lady. Well, not that I’m not enjoying the view, but so is everyone in the courtyard, so I take Checkers’s arm and drag her back inside. I drape my hoodie over her shoulders, zip it up around her, and go see if I can find her pants.

Paps is passed out on the couch and he looks weirdly comfortable there, considering he’s like two feet taller than it is long. He put away, like, half the bottle of Kahlúa, but I’m nursing my scotch like it’s the last drink on earth. I’m not above getting drunk, myself, if the situation calls for it, but the way Checkers is taking the bad news, I think we may need someone to be the voice of reason. That, and I’m a little afraid of what I might do if I wasn’t semi-sober. An image invades my brain of Checkers pressed against me in only her bra and panties, my fingers tangled in her hair, her breath mingling with mine… Okay, I’m not afraid of getting drunk around her. I’m TERRIFIED of it.

“Sans!” Checkers shouts from the kitchen. “Where’d you hide the scotch?”

“In my glass,” I reply, wandering into the kitchen, following the sound of her voice almost against my will. “Best place to put scotch.” I draw up short as she comes into view. She’s still wearing my hoodie, but also still isn’t wearing her jeans. I can feel my face heating up. Good thing that hoodie is baggy, and that Checkers is as short as I am. Her legs look a lot longer, though, without the denim. Hoo boy.

“checkers, for god’s sake, put some pants on.”

“Noooo. I’m hooooot,” she whines.

Don’t pun don’t pun don’t pun…

“i’ll turn down the thermostat,” I respond. “ _you_ put on some clothes and then you can take off the hoodie.”

She grabs at my hoodie, hugging it around her. “No!” And she darts around me and back into the living room. I sigh and follow her again. Who knew drunky-Checkers would be such a handful? (My stupid brain provides me with a visual pun involving breasts. Goddammit! Stop!)

I get back to the living room just in time to see Checkers triumphantly yank the scotch bottle out from under Paps, where I’d stashed it when I decided she’d had enough. Paps doesn’t wake up; poor guy’s gonna be so hung-over tomorrow. Checkers unscrews the cap and I grab her by the wrist before she can take a swig, pulling the bottle out of her fingers. I try to be gentle, but she’s really hanging onto the thing. Finally I manage to wrench it free and I hold it behind my back with one hand, the other one still hanging on to Checkers’s wrist. She leans close to me and flails around behind me with her free arm, laughing. I’m laughing too by this point. I feel kinda guilty, playfully wrasslin’ with a cute girl with no pants on (especially since the girl is Checkers), but if I let her drink much more, she might actually hurt herself. I let go of her wrist and, to keep her from getting around behind me, I wrap my arm around her waist, holding on to her. She gropes blindly for the bottle and I keep turning to keep it out of her grasp ‘cause her arms are as long as mine and she’s getting awfully close to it. We end up doing a sort of slow spin that kinda feels like a dance. After a while, the struggle dies down, and so does the laughter. Checkers gives up and slumps against me, putting her hands on my shoulders. We rock back and forth slowly for a while, still sort-of-dancing. She’s so warm. And so soft. And she’s wearing my hoodie. For some reason, seeing Checkers in my jacket turns me on more than seeing her in just a bra and panties does. I start to feel hot all over. My soul throbs in my chest.

Nope.

I try to move Checkers away from me, but she clings like a limpet. I’d have to let go of the scotch to use both hands, and I’m not quite ready to give Checkers another shot at it (pun intended), so I’m forced to give up the idea of getting away from her. Resigned to my captivity, I stop trying to push her away and resume rocking her gently in place. Her cheek is resting on my clavicle. If I turn my head a little, her forehead is right by my mouth. I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to place a kiss there.

Nope, nope, nope. Nopin’ right out of this situation.

I squeeze my mouth tightly shut, clench my teeth, and turn my head in the other direction. Avoid and evade. Just don’t look that way and you’ll be okay. I try gently to extract myself again, but she won’t let me go. I can feel her breath sliding across my cervical vertebrae and warming the top of my sternum through my t-shirt. I shiver, eye sockets sliding closed, and despite my best efforts to NOT, I lean into her a little. Then she says, “Fuckin’ roommate,” and throws up on me.

Ugh.

* * * * *

I put Checkers to bed, but she doesn’t seem to want to go to sleep. I strip and wash up in her bathroom, and decide to steal a pair of her sweatpants instead of sleeping in wet shorts. I know I’m a little guy, but the fact a little human girl’s clothes fit me so well is freakin’ discouraging. Another reason she’ll never be into me. I sigh unhappily as I trudge back into Checkers’s bedroom to check on her. She’s not asleep yet, but she’s getting there. I hand her a large glass of water and a couple Ibuprofen. She knocks ‘em back and I sit beside the bed on the floor, scratching her scalp lightly with my fingertips in a sort of gentle massage. She sighs and closes her eyes. I’m pretty sure she’s out for the night so I stand up to leave, and suddenly she reaches out and grabs my radius. The feeling of her fingers invading the sensitive space between my radius and ulna sends a shiver down my spine that’s not entirely unpleasant. I yelp, embarrassingly, and tug on my arm. “aah! leggo! not there!” But she’s hanging on for dear life. Her face is pressed into the pillow (how is she even breathing?), but she groans out a muffled “Nnnooooo…” from her place in alco-hell.

Guess I can’t say no to Checkers any more than I can to Paps, ‘cause I sit back down by the bed, leaning my back against it. I take her grasping hand and drape it over my shoulder, intertwining my fingers with hers. Anything to keep her from sticking them where they don’t belong again. (What’s Drunkese for, “Never without my consent?”) She squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. I don’t mean to fall asleep, I don’t want to sleep next to her, but her arm is a warm weight and her hand is so soft in mine and there are a lot of things in life that I don’t want but they happen anyway. And some things I do want that’ll never happen. And that’s my life.

Sans, you impossible asshole.

* * * * *

_I’m back in the Underground, in the Judgement Hall, golden tiles and golden pillars painted with color from the sun streaming through the stained-glass windows. Sunlight, the rarest sight in the Underground, available here because the Hall is close enough to the Surface that the sun can make its way through the large holes in the cavern ceiling._

_I’m waiting for the kid._

_I’m always waiting for the kid._

_Waiting for the kid is my life now, has been since I realized the world turns on the tip of her finger._

_She arrives in a swirl of dust, the remnants of her kills clinging to her like a ghastly grey shroud. Undyne. Tori. My brother. She’s coming for me now, one of the last. Just me between her and the king. I could run. I could. But there’s nowhere to go. Not like my life is worth much anyway._

_Might make a decent barrier, though, if I handle things right._

_Wrath and dread weigh in equal proportions within me; the knowledge is heavy on me that, if she’s determined enough, I WILL lose. The power she has, the ability to rewind and replay time itself, there’s no stopping that. My only hope of stopping her here is to outlast her patience. That’s it. I just have to live longer than she can stand me. And be EXTRA annoying. Sansy, you got this._

_So why do I feel so sick inside?_

_She’s ungodly fast. As fast as me, or almost. I make a big show of dodging, grinning, taunting her. If she sees I’m unnerved, the game will be over. I use all my strongest attacks, white-lightning magic blasts screaming through the air, bone constructs bursting from the walls and floor. All she’s got is a little knife. And those red, red eyes like embers. Eyes to burn down a world._

_I kill her._

_Again._

_And again._

_And again._

_She’s unstoppable._

_I keep trying._

“i know you didn't answer me before, but... somewhere in there. i can feel it.”

_Give up._

“there’s a glimmer of a good person inside of you. the memory of someone who once wanted to do the right thing.”

_GIVE UP!_

“someone who, in another time, might have even been... a friend?”

_Please. Stop._

“c'mon, buddy.”

_STOP!_

“do you remember me?”

_A moment of weakness. I take ruthless advantage of it. She dies in my arms. My heart is ice. My words sound hollow._

“if we’re really friends… you won’t come back.”

_But it’s not Frisk I’m holding. It’s Checkers. Her blood pooling on the ground, cooling on my hands. She opens her eyes. Red eyes like embers._

“I don’t know…”

_Her voice rasps in her throat, sepulchral. A water droplet falls onto her face and rolls down her cheek, running through a blood spatter, drawing a pink streak down her beautiful face. Another drop follows the first. Rain? No, tears._

“I don’t know…” _Her voice is growing sweeter, closer to the voice she spoke with when she was alive._

 _I hold her closer to me, crying._ “what? what is it, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know…” _She leans up towards my face. The bone constructs impaling her scrape heavily against the ground as she shifts. She smiles. Her teeth are daggers._

“I’ve never tasted you.” _She places her mouth on my chest and slowly, gently shears through my top rib with her teeth as if it was made of wax. I jerk and gasp. It hurts, it feels good, I can’t separate the sensations. Horror. Desire. Shame._

_Something warm and soft presses into my back. A feeling of weight on one side of my body._

_Warmth and pressure._

_I’m dreaming._

_I can feel myself edging towards wakefulness._

_Dream Checkers licks my clavicle and takes a bite out of it. Half pain, half unbearable pleasure. I feel sick for feeling the way I feel. Another bite, out of my sternum, slow and sharp. I shudder and moan and fear her and hate myself._

_The pressure around me tightens. Warmth. Comfort._

_The nightmare slides away…_

_Replaced…_

_By…_

B L A C K N E S S

* * * * *

I wake slowly to sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. I’m a little achy from sleeping on the floor. There’s a blanket over me, warm and soft. I close my eye sockets again and drift for a while. I feel… rested. I think… I think tonight was almost nightmare-free. Almost. I _do_ remember one, earlier in the night, I think… ah.

Wow, that’s a new one. Just when I thought I was as screwed-up as I could get…

Checkers must never know.

My limbs are heavy with sleep, the first solid sleep I’ve gotten in I don’t know how long. After a while of contentedly drifting in and out of a light doze, I feel ready to get up. I stretch. Something shifts against my ribcage. Something sighs against the back of my neck.

I freeze.

Slowly, I lift up the blanket and peer under it. Checkers’s hoodie-clad arm is draped across my ribs. She’s lying on the floor, spooning me from behind.

She felt like shit, I know she did, but she still slept on the floor with me.

She chased the nightmares away.

A warm, sweet happiness swells in my chest. I deliberately puncture it with a few choice words to myself.

Just.

A.

Friend.

Then I lift her arm gently and slide away from her, out from under the blanket. _Don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up…_ I’m not sure what she’ll remember from last night, but I don’t want her to wake to an armful of this ol’ bag of bones. Whether or not she remembers what we did(n’t do), it would be hella awkward. So I’m very careful while I untangle myself from her.

I can’t repay her for the gift of a good night’s sleep. But she’s gonna need a Prairie Oyster when she wakes up, and I can at least manage one of those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   **~ Author’s Note ~**  
> 
> 
> Prairie Oyster: break a raw egg into a glass, keeping the yolk intact. Add Worcestershire sauce, salt and pepper, and a couple dashes of Tabasco. Then drink it. It’s good for hangovers. (electrolytes + protein) But it’s not cooked, and about 1 in 20,000 raw eggs has Salmonella in it, so try one at your own risk.
> 
> Generally, I have a pretty low opinion of Freud since his ideas really only apply to certain kinds of abnormal psychology. But poor Sans is repressing some pretty hardcore stuff. Freud would have loved him.


	9. Like Having a Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the couch plays a larger-than-usual role.

_ You _

 

You call in to work. You know it’s only a few days ‘till Christmas and you could use the money, but you’re too hung-over to do anyone any good. Sans greets you with a Prairie Oyster, a couple Ibuprofen, and a huge glass of water when you get up, bless him. He’s not wearing a shirt, and now that you’re close to sober you notice a couple things you hadn’t last night. Sans has a long, pale, slightly raised mark that streaks across his ribcage at an angle, crossing ribs on either side, cutting across his sternum. Jagged streaks radiating from it make it look almost like a keloid scar. More mysteriously, inside his ribcage you can discern a faint bluish glow, a ghostly light partially obscured by his ribs and sternum. You’d like to ask him about it, and possibly try to poke it, but more imperative needs make themselves known. One thing at a time, you remind yourself.

You try to drink without opening your mouth, ashamed of the way you must smell. It tastes like you swallowed a dead skunk.

And then vomited it back up.

Oh, god… why is Sans in your sweatpants? Where are his clothes? Oh, god, you threw up on him last night.

You _threw up. On Sans._

You groan and draw your knees up, hiding your face in them. Your knees are bare.

You’re wearing your underwear, bra, and Sans’s hoodie.

You were sleeping on the floor with him.

This looks bad. You wouldn’t have…

No, no, you remember crawling out of bed with the blanket and draping yourself around him. He kept waking you up, having what sounded like nightmares, whimpering and thrashing. He didn’t even have a blanket. He didn’t even have a _shirt._ He looked miserable and cold and then he started crying in his sleep and you couldn’t stand it anymore so you slid out of bed, head spinning, pulling the comforter with you, and wrapped yourself and the blanket both around him. A couple more twitches and whimpers, encouraging you to tighten your hold on him, one more deep sigh after that, and finally he slept peacefully.

You slept better than you’d have expected, yourself. Turns out Sans is so naturally warm that he’s sort of like a space heater, and that weird pseudo-flesh of his rises up to pad his bones and bridge the spaces between them, cradling the parts of you that are pressed to him, making him comfortably cuddly rather than all bony angles as you might have expected. Aside from the hard floor and scratchy carpet, you were pretty cozy. You’d expect yourself to be embarrassed by the fact you were spooning a half-naked man (monster? One of those) while half-naked yourself, but the man in question was… well… _ill-equipped_ to take advantage of the situation. (At least, you’re pretty sure that’s the case.) Still, in your drunken near-stupor, you’d put a lot of trust in Sans. And he’d come through for you. He’d been more respectful of you than you’d been of him, and you can’t remember a single point where he even flirted, or tried to kiss you. He didn’t even cop an “accidental” feel. He’d been a perfect gentleman.

Then the thought occurs that maybe he’s just not interested. Who knows what skeletons find attractive? You suppose that, to a skeleton monster, humans might look like, well, like squishy flesh bags. For some reason, the thought that Sans may not think you’re pretty makes you feel irritated and unhappy. You grumble to yourself. At least you were comfortable last night.

But now…

You throw on some comfy clothes and re-don the cozy blue hoodie. Then you lurch to the bathroom, hover anxiously over the toilet for a few seconds, decide you’re not going to throw up, and brush your teeth instead. You brush your teeth a second time for good measure, and then discover floss and mouthwash are your new best friends.

You shower.

You check the hoodie for flecks of vomit. It’s clean. Poor Sans got it ALL. You whine a little in the back of your throat and mentally run through possible ways to apologize. How could you do such a thing to Papyrus’s brother after he’d been so patient with you?

Then you brush your teeth a third time.

That’s it. Ready to face the day.

Considering your physical state, facing the day means crashing on the couch with Papyrus, who’s worse-off than you (Kahlúa makes for a terrible hangover), and Sans, who doesn’t seem to be ill at all, but certainly seems to appreciate the opportunity to be lazy. After everything you’ve been through together, and probably in part because you feel awful, you have no problem laying your head on Sans’s lap and your legs on top of Papyrus’s as he leans against the opposite couch arm. The three of you binge-watch the Kung-Fu Panda movies (a compromise: Papyrus wanted something animated, you voted for comedy, and Sans, when pressed for his opinion, said maybe an action flick would be fun) and take turns tossing Cheerios at each other’s mouths. Sans’s clothes are dry now (apparently he washed them in the sink last night), and he’s got his t-shirt back on, but is still wearing your ratty grey sweat pants. Without the hoodie, you can more easily see that his pseudo-flesh forms a sort of frame for the t-shirt. When wearing a shirt, he looks like he’s got more than just a spine in there. He looks like he’s got a whole torso. You poke him in the “belly.” He laughs and tells you to cut it out.

While the three of you watch TV, Sans absent-mindedly alternates between combing your hair with his fingers and gently scratching your scalp as you lie with your head in his lap. It feels nice and you have a suspicion he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, so you don’t comment on it. You don’t want to embarrass him, and you don’t want him to stop.

Sans makes grilled cheese sandwiches and sliced apples for lunch because his brother feels too sick to cook. When he hands you your plate, you thank him with a kiss on the cheek. He blushes a lot redder than you’d expected, but he can’t hide in his hoodie because you’re still wearing it. You’re not inclined to take it off: it’s the coziest thing you’ve ever worn. Of course, you’re forced to admit to yourself, that might be partly because it smells like Sans. That fresh, wild approaching-storm smell and the subtle masculine spiciness hiding under it… it’s the kind of scent you’re happy to wrap yourself in. You have to keep reminding yourself not to sniff the hoodie where Papyrus or Sans can see you. You also sniff Papyrus surreptitiously at one point, eager to know whether he smells the same, but in him the ozone scent is fainter, the petrichor scent is absent entirely, and he smells rather like a chalkboard. Underneath that is a light sweet/salty aroma that reminds you of a combination of muffins and popcorn. Papyrus’s scent is delicious in its own way, you muse, but if you could bottle Sans’s smell and sell it, you’d be a millionaire.

Papyrus has recovered enough by dinnertime to make spaghetti. And you’ve recovered enough to eat it. Sans takes the opportunity to complain that he’s been waiting on you and Papyrus all day and refuses to get off the couch, so you bring his plate to him. Oddly, he blushes a little when you hand it to him. Sometimes you really wish you knew what he was thinking.

A few puns, a bit of banter, and a couple of hugs later, the brothers are on their way home. Sans ‘ports Papyrus and himself from the living room, and for the first time you get to see one of his trips from the outside. It’s like a black void opens in the world and swallows him and whomever he’s hanging onto. It’s silent and eerie, and when they’re gone you shiver a little. Along with the dark, empty eye sockets Sans gets when he’s upset (you think of his expression in the fight with Mrs. Griggs and shiver again) and his unconscious tendency to move noiselessly and appear out of nowhere, your short skeleton friend can certainly be uncannily creepy. Your mouth quirks up at the corner, and you find yourself suddenly smiling. Spooky scary skeleton, you think fondly. You survey your apartment, made suddenly empty in the absence of your friends.

Empty.

You miss them already.

* * * * *

You sigh as you climb the stairs to your apartment. It was a long day at work. You had to stay until nightfall because Louann has the flu. At least you got to leave before closing time. Still, you worked for twelve hours today, and you’re beat. Disappointingly, your skeleton friends didn’t show up, either. Sans’s absence you can understand because he’s not made a habit of visiting you at work, but Papyrus also failed to appear for the first time since the housewarming. Maybe he’s seen enough of you for now. You did spend the last two days together.

Eating lunch without him was boring and lonely.

In addition to this discouragement, Rob has apparently started salting his flirtations with hostility in the wake of your most recent rejection, and worse in your eyes, he made several snide comments about Sans and Papyrus. He’s a pretty friendly guy who generally likes people and is well-liked in turn despite his half-baked yet rock-hard opinions, and it surprises you that he’d choose to cut off an entire segment of the population from his acquaintance, but there it is: he’s okay with all the races, religions, and sexual orientations humans can possess but Rob apparently can’t stand monsters.

Of course, he might just feel that way because he seems to think you’re dating Papyrus. PAPYRUS, for god’s sake. Your scowl morphs into a giggle suddenly. Imagining what it might be like to “date” Papyrus is entertaining for a moment (playdate, more like!), but then reality interjects itself, reminding you that you have to go to work again tomorrow, and once again, Rob will be there. You heave another sigh. At least Roxy will be there, too, and she’s always willing to find ways to keep you and Rob separated during the day.

You stop, startled, at your apartment door. There’s a Christmas wreath hanging on it. That DEFINITELY wasn’t there when you left this morning. As you crack open the door slightly, warm, dim colored light pours out into the hallway. You hesitate, and then, slowly, you push the door all the way open.

The doorway inside has been garlanded around the sill, and more garland drapes the walls near the ceiling. It’s got colored Christmas lights wound in it, and here and there ornaments hang like delicate, colorful fruits. There’s a large window directly opposite the door, on the far side of the living room, and a large Christmas tree has been placed there, lit and decorated with both style and enthusiasm. Every room is traced in lighted garland. Sprigs of holly spring from unconventional places as if they’ve grown there, adorning bookcases and lamps and the corners of furniture. You hug yourself joyfully. It’s magical.

You turn around when you reach the living room. Yep. There’s mistletoe hanging over the doorway.

You hadn’t had time to decorate for Christmas before, and once you’d learned you were going to lose the apartment, you’d decided bitterly not to bother.

It looks like someone bothered for you.

And since the door was locked, you have a pretty good idea who it was.

You pull out your phone and bring up your contacts.

“MISS (Y/N)! YOU HAVE CALLED AT LAST! THIS MEANS YOU HAVE ARRIVED HOME, CORRECT? IT IS VERY BEAUTIFUL, IS IT NOT? SANS HUNG THE MISTLETOE!”

You laugh, holding the phone away from your ear slightly. Papyrus has a tendency to shout into the receiver as if he’s trying to bridge the gap between himself and whomever he’s speaking to through purely physical means. “Yeah, it’s amazing, Papyrus! Thank you so much!” You recline on the couch, staring at the decorations in wonder. You may spend the night here in the living room, sleeping on the couch, with the tree lighting the room with its soft, warm glow.

“YOU ARE VERY WELCOME! THAT IS WHAT BEST-NEIGHBOR-FRIENDS ARE FOR! EVERYONE SHOULD DECORATE FOR CHRISTMAS! AND DECORATING EACH OTHER’S HOUSES FOR CHRISTMAS IS EVEN BETTER! SANTA WILL NOT COME TO A HOUSE THAT IS NOT DECORATED! IT IS HOW YOU SHOW THAT YOU BELIEVE IN CHRISTMAS!”

You can’t stop smiling. Papyrus often has this effect on you. “Pretty sure Santa has better people to visit than me,” you answer. Thinking of Sans’s love for his brother and his occasionally sneaky tendencies, you add, “I bet he’ll come to your house, though.”

“OF COURSE HE WILL! HE COMES EVERY YEAR! I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO CATCH HIM NO MATTER HOW CLEVERLY I SET THE TRAPS, BUT HE ALWAYS LEAVES PRESENTS SO I KNOW HE CAME!”

Bingo. Presents from Sansta.

“SANTA WILL SURELY VISIT YOU AS WELL, BECAUSE YOU ARE SO KIND AND GOOD! HE KNOWS IF YOU HAVE BEEN BAD OR GOOD! MY BROTHER SAYS SO, AND HE IS ALMOST ALWAYS RIGHT! ALSO, I HAVE A PRESENT FOR YOU, BUT YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO KNOW THAT BECAUSE IT MUST BE A SURPRISE, SO PLEASE FORGET THAT I TOLD YOU NOW.”

“Told me what?” you play along. Papyrus cackles. “Hey,” you continue. “You guys want to come over and enjoy the decorations with me? We can watch Christmas movies. I’ve got popcorn.”

“THAT SOUNDS DELIGHTFUL! WE WILL MOST DEFINITELY BE THERE!” A murmur in the background, unintelligible through the phone, interrupts Papyrus. “YES YOU WILL!” he shouts, voice slightly muffled as if he’s covering the receiver with his bony hand. “YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO SEE HER FACE!” Papyrus’s voice is cut off with a clatter and the sound of a scuffle.

“when you saw the decorations!” Sans’s voice gasps through the phone, over the sounds of continued struggling. “i wanted to see your face when you saw the decorations!” The scuffle dies down and Papyrus’s voice interjects, muffled as if his face is being pressed into the couch cushions but still clearly audible because of its natural volume.

“THAT IS NOT HOW YOU SAID IT! ALSO, GET OFF!”

You laugh. “Hi, CB,” you say.

“hey, checkers.”

“So are you coming over for movies and popcorn?”

“ehh, i dunno. seems like a lotta hassle to move-ie somewhere else when i’ve got a nice couch right here.”

“Aww, come on. I want to thank you guys properly for this. Besides, I still have your hoodie. You can have it back if you come over.”

Sans hums thoughtfully but doesn’t give you a proper answer, so you playfully add, “Please? I want to see your face, too.”

Suddenly, your ear is met with a dial tone. You wonder if you went too far. From whence came this driving need to flirt with Sans? You’ve never been the flirty type before.

After a moment, your phone rings. It’s an unknown number. You answer.

“SORRY, MISS (Y/N), I AM USING MY BROTHER’S PHONE NOW BECAUSE HE HAS CRUSHED MINE.”

* * * * *

Over popcorn and the Muppet Christmas Carol, you discuss holiday plans with the skelebros. In this case, “discuss” means that Papyrus tells you his own plans and you mentally struggle to keep up while Sans watches in amusement.

“AND THAT IS WHY WE WILL BE HAVING OUR CHRISTMAS PARTY AT YOUR APARTMENT!” Papyrus finishes gleefully.

“Uh, what?” He’s left you behind again.

“AND THAT IS WHY WE WILL BE HAVING OUR CHRISTMAS PARTY AT YOUR APARTMENT,” Papyrus obligingly repeats for you.

“You mean, you guys and all your friends? Who are mostly monsters? Here, where the powers that be don’t want you?”

“c’mon, checkers, the damage is done, right? she can’t kick you out twice. besides, you can’t leave this place without having one more Christmas in it.”

You look around at your home nostalgically. What the boys have done with it… it’s beautiful. It makes you feel like a kid again. You’ve done very little for Christmas the past couple of years. Since your dad passed away, there hasn’t been much of a desire to celebrate it. Maybe… maybe it _would_ be nice to throw yourself into the holiday one more time before you leave. You’re sick of having no one to celebrate it with, and it’s true that a Christmas party would probably make a happy memory to take with you when you go.

“MISS (Y/N),” Papyrus appeals, taking your silence for disagreement. “YOU WILL NOT HAVE TO DO ANYTHING! SANS AND I WILL DO IT ALL!”

“papyrus will do it all.”

“YES, THE GREAT PAPYRUS WILL DO IT ALL! AND ALSO SANS!”

You’re laughing again. You can’t help it. It’s so good to have someone in your home other than yourself. Or a drunken, obnoxious roommate you were never able to be comfortable around, no matter how much you wanted to be friends with her. Sans and Papyrus have become an indispensable part of your life in such a short amount of time. You know there’s more to learn about them; Sans, in particular, is an iceberg: most of him is hidden beneath the surface. Still, you’ve seen enough to know that they’re good people, that they care, that they’re fun to be around, and that they don’t expect anything of you in return. You can be yourself around them, and they seem to like you for it. It’s comforting.

It’s like having a family again.

“Sounds like fun. Let’s do it.”

Papyrus hugs you. Sans sits there and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**  
> 
> 
> In someone like Sans, it’s really easy to mistake avoidant attachment for disinterest. Since Sans is extraordinarily self-actualized, he doesn’t display or even really experience the most outwardly-noticeable effects of being attached to someone and anxious about it. He puts a lot of himself into valuing and understanding others, he always thinks before he acts and tries to get a realistic view of the situation before he does anything about it, and he refuses to consciously turn away from things that he finds difficult to deal with. However, he still has that semi-subconscious inner voice that tells him, if you get too close, you’ll get hurt and there’s something wrong with you/you’re not worthwhile. Fearful-avoidants, in particular, tend to create an artificial personality for themselves so they can make friends without revealing their inner selves. That’s Sans all over as he appeared in-game, though he’s pretty much dropped that “bar buddy” persona at this point in his development. Unfortunately, Sans is still in a place inside himself where he can’t trust people to continue to love him once they get to know him, so without his public persona, all he has left is his insecurity. :( Well, at least he doesn’t engage in “serial monogamy.” Instead he’s making it a point to try and avoid relationships altogether. Because it hurts him to be alone but he’s not taking steps to mitigate that (e.g. thinking of everyone else as beneath him, romanticizing his independence, etc.), I find him a remarkably strong and very real person.


	10. History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the realization that your friends had lives before you met them causes a not-insignificant amount of suffering.

_ You _

Christmas Eve comes amidst a flurry of activity and events, only some of which you have any control over. Rob started purchasing burner phones after you blocked his number, using them to text you with angry and inappropriate things. You finally took Sans’s advice and reported him to your boss. He was subsequently fired. He’s still texting you, so you plan to report him to the police after Christmas, but right now, there’s too much to deal with to worry about pressing harassment charges. You haven’t told Sans about it, either. Something tells you the small skeleton may take steps of his own, and you don’t want him to get into trouble. This is a special concern of yours because monsters don’t yet have any legal rights, and aside from Sans having no protection under the law, if he creates a negative incident, it might impact the rights talks.

Roxy has been tied up in her own holiday plans recently: she lives in a large farm house outside of town with her parents, one grandparent, and five siblings. It’s a rowdy crowd and big holidays like Christmas require a lot of prep work. You’ve seen her at the café, but there’s been no opportunity to spend time together as friends recently. It’s a lack you’ve felt every year around this time since you and Roxy were kids. You’ll make up for it with a sleepover sometime in January, as always, but right now, you miss her.

Sans and Papyrus have been in and out all day, setting up for the party. You’re having it on Christmas Eve so that you can spend Christmas Day relaxing in your pajamas in keeping with holiday tradition. The skelebros are setting up a buffet in the kitchen, and Toriel has been by a couple of times as well, bearing desserts including a butterscotch-cinnamon pie that smells divine. It’s apparently a specialty of hers. You can’t get over the fact that the queen of the monsters is baking for your Christmas party.

You also can’t get over how close she and Sans seem to be.

You didn’t get to see them interact much at the housewarming because Sans was being attentive to you, but now you’re able to watch them together, and darned if it isn’t the cutest thing. They share a love for puns and terrible jokes that almost defies belief, and Toriel’s tendency to laugh loudly and easily is something Sans clearly finds flattering. They always seem to be conversing, and though they’re both taking time to talk to you as well, you’re beginning to feel the weight of the history these people share, a history you’ll never be a part of.

Sans and Toriel are adorable together.

You wish you could be happy about that.

“My child,” Toriel says, interrupting your train of thought. She lays a large, soft hand on your shoulder. “I know we have not had much opportunity to get to know one another, but you seem… troubled. Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds, but I wish to make sure everything is all right.”

You shake your head, smiling a little. “Sorry, Toriel, my mind’s just wandering.” You pat her hand gently, and she removes it from your shoulder, but continues to look concerned.

“I do not wish to pry, but if there is something bothering you, and if there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask. I would very much like for us to be friends.”

Friends. Something about the word stings a little. You can’t put your finger on what it is that’s bothering you, and that makes you feel awkward and guilty. Toriel has been nothing but kind to you, and you would very much like to be friends with her as well. But if you’ll never be as close to her as Sans is…

No, wait, turn that phrase around. If you’ll never be as close to Sans as Toriel is…

Ohh. _There_ it is. _That’s_ the thorn that’s stinging you. You feel your cheeks flush in shame as the realization hits you.

You’re jealous.

That’s not fair to Toriel, _or_ to Sans. You’re not even sure what you’re jealous _of._ You’ve only known Sans for a short time. It’s ridiculous to think that you could be as close to him as someone he’s cared about for so much longer.

“Thanks, Toriel.” You smile at her a little sadly. “I’m not really comfortable talking about it, but I want us to be friends, too. Thanks for baking. I’m really looking forward to this evening.”

“Yes, I am as well,” Toriel replies. She sighs wistfully and gives you a patient, fond look. “I must return home for now, but I will be back at five of the clock, with my husband and child. I hope we will have more time then to enjoy each other’s company.”

“I hope so too,” you say honestly. Toriel is so kind, like all the monsters you’ve met. But more than that, she’s… well… You never had much of a mother. She wasn’t around for most of your life, and you sometimes wonder if she left because she really didn’t want to be, wasn’t _ready_ to be, a mother. Toriel… she’s like the mother you always wanted but never had. Would she find it creepy if she knew you wished you’d had a mom like her?

As usual, Sans steps out of nowhere as you and Toriel move from the kitchen to the living room. He holds out a bony hand to the monster queen with a smile. “ready to go?”

Toriel grips his hand in her great white paws, smiling warmly. “For now, young man. I’ll see you tonight.”

Sans grins at her. “yeah, wouldn’t want to christ-miss the party.”

Toriel howls with laughter. You laugh a little yourself, watching her reaction. She genuinely loves puns, no matter how bad they are. It’s a little bizarre and appealingly quirky. The monster queen responds quickly with, “Just try not to overdo it. You would not want to end up in a holi-daze again.”

Sans chuckles. “my eggnoggin was sore for a week. ’s what i get for getting mistletotally hammered.”

Toriel is laughing so hard now that she looks on the verge of tears. “Eggnoggin! What an eggcellent pun!”

“well, you know i eggcel at those.”

“Sans, you are an eggstraordinary comedian! You…” *gasp* _“…crack me up!”_ Caught in the throes of hilarity, Toriel can’t even stand up straight. You put a shoulder under one of her arms, giving her something to lean on. Your own laughter has died away. Your heart hurts. You feel sad and angry at the same time that you’re admonishing yourself for being petty and ungrateful. You keep a smile plastered to your face, but you know it doesn’t look natural. Well, these two are so focused on each other that they’re not likely to notice, anyway.

When, finally, the punning dies down, Sans takes Toriel by the waist and ‘ports her back to her home. You stand in the middle of the living room, listening to Papyrus humming in the kitchen as he whips up a big batch of homemade spaghetti sauce. You’re not sure what to do with yourself.

You feel like an outsider.

It’s lonely.

A bony finger taps you on the shoulder. You yelp and spin around. Sans is standing behind you, hands in his hoodie pockets, grin relaxed but brows raised. “hey, checkers, what’s eatin’ you?”

You blush and look away. He noticed you’re not yourself. Despite all the attention he was paying to Toriel, he noticed. “I… I don’t know if I want to talk about it.”

Sans shrugs. “fair enough. if you really want to keep it to yourself, that’s okay.” He says so, but he doesn’t leave. He’s still standing there, staring at you. You sneak a glance at him. Of course, since he’s staring right at you, your glance isn’t as sneaky as you’d hoped. Sans heaves a disappointed sigh and tries again. “i just want you to know you can talk to me. i mean, i hope you feel comfortable talking to me. whatever it is, i promise i won’t get mad, or think less of you, or whatever it is you’re worried about. or, oh…” A thought seems to strike him. “are _you_ mad at _me?_ did i do something wrong? no, huh? okay…” Sans is leaning closer to you, studying your face, trying to glean information from it. You could tell him to back off and leave you alone, but you can’t bring yourself to do that to him. You don’t want to hurt him. You want to be closer to him; you don’t want to push him away.

Sans is standing so close to you that your faces are just a few inches apart. He gently cups the side of your face with a hand, studying your eyebrows, your eyes, your mouth. “what’s hurting you?” he murmurs softly, as if to himself, examining your face as if he thinks that, if he looks hard enough, he’ll be able to see through your surface and into your thoughts, your feelings. You swallow hard. It’s too much. He’s too close, he’s too observant, and he cares about you enough to keep trying until he understands what’s wrong. Why aren’t you moving away? Your awkwardly wandering eyes find the courage to meet Sans’s bright eye-lights. He stares into your eyes as if he’s trying to read your soul like a book. You can feel his breath brushing against you; how do skeletons breathe? _Why_ do they breathe? Can he feel your breath, too?

Almost absentmindedly, he brushes a gentle thumb across your cheek. You shiver, lips parting slightly. Suddenly color floods Sans’s face. He seems to realize for the first time how close he is to you, how intensely he’s been staring, and abruptly he drops his hand and takes a step back, putting some distance between you.

He rubs the back of his skull, averting his eyes from you. You stand where you are for a moment, willing your breathing to return to normal, waiting for your heartbeat to subside.

_What was that?_

As you regain your equilibrium, you come to a decision. You need to talk to Sans about your jealous reactions. If you keep them to yourself, they might fester and poison your friendship. Do you trust him enough to let him know about the silly, petty parts of you?

You do.

“Can we go for a walk?” you ask, meeting his eyes again.

“sure,” he answers, and goes to get your coat for you, shouting over his shoulder, “paps, (y/n) and i are goin’ for a walk. you gonna be okay here by yourself for a while?”

“YES, OF COURSE I WILL BE FINE! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS IN THE MIDDLE OF A PROFOUND ACT OF CREATION WHICH MUST NOT BE INTERRUPTED…” A crash, the sound of a breaking plate, and an odd splattering noise suddenly erupt from the kitchen, followed by Papyrus’s irritated shout of, “LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO, BROTHER! LOOK WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU INTERRUPT MY ART!”

Sans opens his mouth as if to respond, glances at you, and then closes it again. You guess he was going to make a pun of some kind but decided now wasn’t the time. He helps you on with your coat and the two of you leave by the door, something Sans hasn’t done once since the brothers put up the decorations. You’d hoped to get a chance to tease him under the mistletoe, but now that you finally have the opportunity, you don’t feel up to it. You take the lead, and the two of you walk out into the winter afternoon.

The courtyard is deserted today. The cold weather has come back with a vengeance, chill wind biting at your cheeks, overcast sky promising snow later. There are several benches spaced among the trees, and they’re clear of snow for now: Mrs. Griggs makes a point of keeping the benches clean. You and Sans sit on one of them, the one under the big maple tree near the center of the courtyard, and you’re silent for a while, trying to choose your words. Sans watches you patiently.

Finally you decide that there’s no graceful way to say what you need to say, so you just begin.

“Seeing you with Toriel makes me lonely and sad.”

Sans blinks in astonishment and you curse yourself for an awkward sow. You force yourself to continue.

“You guys have known each other for _so long._ I can tell. I’ve only known you and Papyrus for a few weeks, not even a month. It makes me feel like a fifth wheel.”

“checkers…” Sans has clearly been taken by surprise. Now he’s the one struggling to find the right words. “i don’t ever want you to feel like an outsider. paps and i… we love you.” He stops, blushing, and a blush starts to creep up your cheeks as well. “Love” is such a strong word, and though monsters in general seem inclined to freely demonstrate their affections, Sans stands out as someone who prefers to play his cards close to the chest. He obviously doesn’t want it to be a big deal, but it means a lot that he chose to say it that way. You won’t embarrass him by calling attention to it, but you’ll remember.

“we do,” Sans continues, recovering from his momentary shyness. “we want you to love our other friends, too; we’d like it if you could be part of the group. all friends together, y’know? but if things don’t work out that way, that’s okay too. you don’t have to force yourself, all right? you’ll never be a fifth wheel.” He lifts a hand, seems to hesitate for a moment, and then places it on your shoulder. “you’re part of my life now, too. so, yeah, tori and i have some history. but she wasn’t there for the times you and paps and i spent together, either. so you and i have some history of our own.”

The tight knot in the middle of your chest loosens a little at Sans’s reassurances. You sniff, wiping away a tear. Sans looks stricken, and pulls you gently into an embrace. You bury your face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. You’re not crying, really. Well, maybe just a little.

“Before I met you and Papyrus,” you say, voice a little shaky, and muffled from speaking through the fabric of Sans’s hoodie, “For a long time, all I had was my dad and Roxy. And then,” you sniffle again. “And then it was just Roxy.” Sans’s arms tighten around you. He starts rubbing those familiar small circles on your back. You sigh and relax into him. “I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful, or stupid, o-or…”

“shhhhh, shhshhshh…” Sans moves from rubbing your back to carding his fingers through your hair. “i don’t think any of those things. i think you’re lonely.”

You laugh weakly into his clavicle. “Sorry.”

“don’t be. ’s all right to feel a little possessive of the people you care about, as long as you don’t let that feeling take charge. i know, okay? i know what it’s like.” Sans scratches your scalp lightly for a few moments before going back to combing your hair with his fingers. “can i tell you something?”

“Mm-hmm.” You’re starting to feel so relaxed that you’re becoming a bit sleepy.

“i’m a little jealous of you and paps.”

You pull back, surprised and suddenly wide-awake. “What? Really?”

Sans gives you a crooked smile with a hint of wistfulness to it. “you and my bro spend a lot of time together, and you get along with each other really well. he visits you every day. i care about you both and i want you to be happy, but sometimes… well, sometimes i feel like i don’t want to share my brother with you, and sometimes i don’t want to share you with him.” Sans blushes brightly and glances away, then puts in the effort needed to look at you again as he quietly finishes, “it’s hard ‘cause paps and i have always shared everything.”

It takes you a moment to recover from this revelation. Sans gets jealous, too. He understands.

_He understands._

You blow out a relieved breath and offer a shaky laugh. Sans laughs with you, and reaches over to ruffle your hair. You smack at his hand. “Stop. You’ll undo all the combing you did.”

“combing?”

Okay, it seems like the petting thing is unconscious. You decide to drop the subject. There’s one more thing you need to know, though.

“Sans…” You hesitate. He waits patiently, giving you time to think. “Toriel… do you like her? Like, _like_ like her?”

You’ve caught him off guard again. He rubs a hand on the back of his skull and blows out a breath. “i used to,” he admits finally.

There’s a sharp tightness in your chest, and a pressure behind your eyes. You blink rapidly and look away from Sans, studying the ground at your feet.

Sans is studying his feet, too. “tori and i… we go way back. used to be, all i had was my brother. then i met tori. well,” he chuckles, “maybe ‘met’ isn’t the right word. in the underground, we lived near this woods. and in the woods was a locked door that never opened. and on the other side of the door, there was this voice.” He looks off into the distance, his expression wistful. “we’d tell each other knock-knock jokes.” He laughs a little. “it was great. but i was… well, i was even more of a mess back then than i am today.” His crooked grin turns self-deprecating. You’re watching him again, desperate to know more about him. Sans so rarely talks about himself. And you care so very much about him. You can tell these memories are both nostalgic and painful for him. Sans’s hands are resting on his knees. You place your hand on top of his. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye socket, and then turns his hand over to intertwine his fingers with yours. You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

“‘m pretty sure,” he continues, “that i started liking her ‘cause it was safe to like her. ‘cause, you know, she was just a voice on the other side of a locked door. nothing could ever happen between us, and that made it okay to like her, i guess. i don’t know what my deal was, really. i was lonely and mixed-up and i could romeo-and-juliet to myself all day if i never saw the lady and i wouldn’t have to worry about consequences. the everyday stuff you deal with when you’re in an actual relationship wasn’t something i was capable of handling at the time, and i think deep-down i knew that.” He looks at your joined hands for a moment, then looks away again. “when we finally met in person, my infatuation was sorta short-circuited. not that she’s not pretty!” he rushes to qualify his statement. “she’s gorgeous! but suddenly, liking her was less appealing ‘cause there was a chance she might reciprocate, so my crush on her kinda fizzled out and didn’t come back. and then, you know, she turned out to be married.” Sans shrugs. “so, that’s my embarrassing failed romance story.” He shoots a grin at you. “okay, now you tell one.”

You put your arms around his neck and hug him. He stiffens for a moment in surprise, and then relaxes and wraps his arms around your waist, holding you to him. “Thanks for telling me all that,” you murmur against the side of his skull. His arms tighten infinitesimally on you, and a little shiver runs down his spine.

“h-hey, is this a ploy to get out of telling me an embarrassing ex story?” His voice is low and quiet and a little raspy. You can feel his breath brushing the edge of your ear, feel the rumble of his words in your body. Now it’s your turn to shiver. You slowly release your grip and slide away from Sans. Without the warmth of his body, the cold air seems more bitter than ever.

“Let’s get back inside. I think we’re about to get snowed on.” You stand up and wait for Sans to get up, too. He just sits there, looking at you. You hold out a hand to him. “Come on.” Sans quirks a smile at you and takes your hand, allowing you to pull him to his feet. Hand in hand, the two of you head back to the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~ Author’s Note ~**
> 
> In my head, Toriel left Asgore but never divorced him. She couldn’t stop him from her place at his side, so she left him to live in the ruins and try to prevent any more humans from crossing his path. She was pissed at him for what he was doing, but she still loved him. Number 1 Nose-Nuzzle champs never really fall out of love.


	11. Good Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which mixed signals lead to some confusion, self-exploration, and a somewhat muddled and vague reexamination of the feelings between friends.

_Sans_

 

I’m pretty surprised at myself. I went on this “walk” with Checkers to learn more about what’s going on in her head, and I ended up spilling all this shit about myself instead. I revealed way more than I learned. I probably told Checkers more about myself in just a few minutes than I’ve said out loud in years. It’s not like me. I don’t like to talk about myself, and I don’t like people knowing too much about me, either. It feels… invasive, somehow. And I’m always kinda under the impression that they won’t like what they find out. Good ol’ Sans, not nearly as fun on the inside as he is on the outside. Anxious and depressed all the time. What a downer.

I keep sneaking glances at Checkers out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her to betray some sign of disgust or annoyance, even though I _know_ hearing that stuff made her happy. It’s like my feelings and my thoughts, which should be best friends, are barely on speaking terms. But hey, what else is new?

Checkers hasn’t let go of my hand. The feeling of her fingers linked with mine is so _right._ And the way she hugged me at the end of our talk… her body pressed to mine, her breath against the side of my skull as she whispered to me… it, uh… y-y’know, let’s talk about something else.

I’m waiting for that feeling that I’ve said too much, that I don’t want to be around someone who can look at me and see my soul, that I need to get away from this girl before she pushes me away herself. But either it’s not showing up, or it’s a lot weaker than usual. Somehow, I… I’ve come to trust Checkers. With my feelings. Trusting someone with your life is one thing. Trusting them with your heart? That’s terrifying. Especially since…

Since…

My soul, which has been fluttering happily in my chest for the past several minutes, changes tactics, growing heavy and tightening painfully.

She didn’t say anything when I admitted to being jealous. I told her I didn’t want to share her with Paps and she didn’t even notice.

That hurts.

I think it broke my heart a little.

But, hey, she was wrapped up in her own stuff. Taking it as an absolute rejection would be pretty silly. Better to wait until all the facts are in. Despite knowing this, my thoughts and feelings still aren’t getting along. It hurts.

_It hurts._

Checkers squeezes my hand. I glance over at her. She’s looking at me with concern. Damn, did I make a face? Must’ve made a face. I manage a smile for her. She smiles back.

As we walk through the door to her apartment, Paps comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. I start to head towards him, but Checkers tugs on my hand, keeping me in place, and indicates the mistletoe above us with a glance and a playful smile. Heat rushes to my face and, overwhelmed, I try to make an escape. But Checkers pulls me back by the hand, giggling. “Come on, it’s good luck,” she wheedles.

“YES, INDEED,” Paps chimes in, joining us in the doorway. “IF YOU ARE UNDER MISTLETOE WITH SOMEONE, YOU MUST KISS THEM! OTHERWISE THE GOOD LUCK WILL GET AWAY!” And he. Fucking. Kisses her.

On the mouth.

“MWAH!” The silly cartoonish noise he makes and the fact it’s only a quick smooch reassures my brain, but not my soul. Something snaps inside me with a tiny “pop.” I drop Checkers’s hand and turn to march away, unable to conceal my sulk. Then Paps, oblivious as usual, grabs me by the shoulders and steers me back to the doorway. Paps, no! I can’t do this right now!

I don’t know whether I’m about to cry or punch him.

Checkers’s face twists in worry. “Sans? Your… your eyes are dark.”

My eye-lights must’ve gone out. Apparently they do that sometimes when I’m unhappy. Dammit, if there’s anything worse than having an obvious tell that rats on your feelings, I’d like to know. I pull my hood up and hide inside it.

“BROTHER, DO NOT BE STUBBORN,” Paps orders. “YOU MUST KISS MISS (Y/N) UNDER THE MISTLETOE. IT IS THE RULE.” And he shoves me back into the doorway. My heels plant themselves on the floor and make a scraping noise as Paps pushes me into position. Checkers looks like she’s not having fun anymore. She’s worried about me.

I really don’t want her to worry.

I drag a grin onto my face. Can’t seem to pull my hood down yet, but maybe a smile will be enough.

It isn’t.

Checkers bites her lower lip for a moment, then she gently grasps the edges of my hood on either side of my head and fuckin’ comes in after me. I laugh a little in surprise, creating a small vibration as her lips brush my mouth lightly. An electric charge zings through me and I inhale sharply, the scent of her flooding my mind, my soul. The kiss is over as quickly as that. Checkers pulls away, drawing her face out of my hood. I almost lean forward as she leans back and have to fight the urge to try to close the distance between us again. My mouth is tingling, and my mind replays that light brush of lips over and over and over again, and every time it does, I feel another wave of electric pleasure that makes my head swimmy and my knees weak. I have to remind myself to start breathing again. I can’t take my eyes off Checkers.

She’s blushing.

She didn’t blush when Paps kissed her.

“THERE, THAT WAS NOT SO BAD, WAS IT?” Paps says. I’m standing very still. I can’t seem to move. I’m staring into Checkers’s eyes and she’s staring into mine. Paps’s voice sounds weirdly muffled to me as he continues, “NOW YOU WILL HAVE GOOD LUCK!”

Got news for ya, Paps. That _was_ the good luck.

It takes me a couple seconds to register the howling battle cry that’s growing steadily louder, along with the sound of big clunky boots pounding up the stairs. I realize what I’m hearing and turn my head just as Undyne arrives at the top of the steps and throws her arms in the air triumphantly, thoughtlessly spilling the stack of presents she was carrying all over the landing. Hope none of ‘em were breakable.

“I win!” she shouts. Much further down the stairwell, I can hear labored panting. Poor Alphys. Undyne seems to get hit with the same thought, and charges back down the stairs. There’s an “oof” and, a couple of seconds later, Undyne comes thundering back up the stairs with Alphys slung over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Th-thanks, Undyne,” Alphys stammers, looking less nauseous than I’d have expected after a ride like that. Undyne plunks her down on her feet and then turns to us, all standing in the open doorway like a bunch of goobers.

“Hey! Mistletoe!” she shouts, her shark-toothed smile widening, and she grabs Checkers and plants one on her, a big, sloppy, unnecessarily passionate kiss right on the lips. Checkers flails her arms and reaches out to me and Paps, like, “Save me, guys!” Sorry, Checkers, you’re on your own.

Alphys takes out her phone and snaps a picture.

I kinda want one, too.

What a way to start a party.

 

_ You _

 

Undyne and Alphys kiss each other under the mistletoe next, and they do it so graphically that you and the skelebros are forced to retreat to the living room in embarrassment. Papyrus is grousing about it.

Sans is laughing at you.

It’s funny; when Papyrus kissed you, it was so much more innocent than Undyne’s display, but for a minute there, Sans had looked… jealous. You remember his admission of jealousy when he spoke of you and his brother being close, but you’d assumed he was just feeling generally possessive of the people he cared about, wanting to be more certain of his own importance in their lives, that sort of thing. But something inside Mr. Self-Control seemed to come slightly unravelled when Papyrus planted that silly, sweet smooch on you. You’d started wondering if it was possible… if he… Could Sans like you? _Like_ like you? However far-fetched, the possibility made you feel guilty for teasing him about the mistletoe. Were you treading on more important ground than you’d assumed? Were you failing to take Sans’s feelings as seriously as you should?

You suppose it’s time to take a page from Roxy’s Big Book of Integrity.

But by the time you’d decided to drop the issue, Papyrus was involved, and he wouldn’t let the debacle end without a kiss. So you did the most compassionate thing you could think of: you kept it hidden, and kept it small, just sweeping chastely over his pseudo-flesh and away before you could press through to the bone. Still, you were shocked at your own reaction: a wave of pleasurable tension swept through your stomach when your mouth met his, and then Sans drew in a sharp breath, and your heart trembled and seized.

Can… can humans like skeletons?

‘Cause you think you might like Sans.

You can feel another blush creeping up your face. Can monsters and humans… you know? You’re almost sure that Sans can’t, at least not the way humans do. On the other hand, there may be a workaround, you think, remembering his delicate blue tongue and blushing harder. Wait, why are you thinking about this?! It’s disrespectful to Sans. And it’s too soon. You’re not even sure you like him that way. This might have just been a crazy reaction to your first kiss in a really, really long time.

The memory of his face as you pulled away from him under the mistletoe causes a wave of butterflies to swarm through your stomach. He had this stunned expression, like he was struggling to process what had happened. His bony mouth was slightly slack, his breathing a little rapid, his eye-lights returned and dilated to twice their normal size.

But then Undyne kissed you, and he wasn’t jealous at all. He thought it was funny.

Why? What was different?

Well, your discomfort was pretty obvious. And he knew Undyne pretty well; maybe this sort of thing was normal for her. Actually, since she did it in front of her own significant other and Alphys didn’t seem to mind, it’s pretty clear that Undyne’s kiss didn’t mean anything more to her than it did to you.

Does that mean he thought Papyrus’s kiss might mean something to you, or to Papyrus? Did it look like more than just a “friendship smooch?” You eye Papyrus, suddenly suspicious. _Was_ it more than just a friendship smooch? Papyrus is talking animatedly with Undyne, not paying you any attention, or giving you surreptitious looks, or doing anything else to indicate that he might have a thing for you. No, Papyrus isn’t attracted to you. That much is clear.

Alternatively, does Sans think you’re more likely to fall for his brother than you are to fall for him?

Wait, you’re not even sure you’re right about Sans’s reaction being jealousy!

Well, you’re _really_ starting to confuse yourself now.

Maybe, instead of trying to figure out how Sans feels, you should figure out how _you_ feel.

You feel…

Hungry.

This mistletoe thing… you’ve given it so much thought that you’ve completely muddied the waters. Now your thoughts are building on a scaffolding of each other, with no evidential support, and if you let it continue, who knows what crazy ideas you’ll come up with. It’ll be best to stop trying so hard, and just enjoy the party.

You hope the rest of the guests arrive soon so Papyrus can serve dinner.

At that moment, Sans ‘ports in with Frisk, who squeals like the little girl she no longer is and runs to hug you, catching you by surprise. You laugh and hug her back, a couple weeks’ worth of familiarity with monsters making the public display of affection more charming than alarming to you this time. Once she’s finished squeezing you, Frisk throws herself at Undyne, who catches her out of the air, puts her in a headlock, and gives her a ferocious-looking noogie. By the time Frisk has finished her hugs and settled herself between Undyne and Alphys, Sans is back with Toriel, who immediately puts down a couple shopping bags full of presents and pulls you into a warm and very furry embrace.

“(Y/N), it is so good to see you again!”

You laugh. “We just spoke a couple hours ago.”

“That does not make it less good to see you,” Toriel replies, smiling with good cheer and a touch of mischief.

You laugh. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Then Sans is back with Asgore, who also hugs you, and before the small skeleton can ‘port away again, you grab him by the sleeve of his hoodie and lean in a little to murmur, “Don’t exhaust yourself, okay?”

Sans looks at you in surprise, and a pink blush spreads across his cheekbones. Are you imagining things, or did his eyes just dilate? He laughs a bit weakly.

“don’t worry, checkers,” he responds, voice low, easing your hand away from his arm. “i’m just pickin’ up grillby and mk and then I’m done.” With a lopsided grin and a small wave, he’s gone again, just as the muffled sound of a trumpet fanfare issues from the hallway beyond the closed door. As the fanfare leads into a synth melody comprised mostly of dramatic, rhythmic thumping, Frisk and Papyrus both leap from their seats and the tall skeleton excitedly passes the human girl a Ziplock bag full of something shiny. They bound towards the doorway as it’s thrown open and one of Mettaton’s long legs emerges in kick-line style, quickly followed by the rest of the robot. Behind him, you can see Napstablook precariously balancing a pile of gifts on his translucent head. Mettaton strikes a gratuitously dramatic pose, complete with showers of sparkles provided by Frisk and Papyrus, who are throwing handfuls of golden glitter over the robot from the baggies.

“Thank you, thank you, darlings,” Mettaton purrs, smiling, and before he can move into the apartment, Frisk pulls him down to her level and kisses him cheerfully on the cheek. “Oh! Oh, my, Frisk dear, thank you for reminding me!” He raises his arms and his voice and announces, “I will now be distributing mistletoe kisses! All those who wish to receive extra luck this Christmas, please form a line!” Papyrus jumps happily into Mettaton’s arms and plants the same sort of kiss he gave to you on the robot’s smiling mouth. Alphys shuffles up next to kiss Mettaton’s cheek, and Undyne pounces on him with her characteristic passion. Toriel, Asgore, and you are the only ones not to take him up on his offer.

Oh, and Sans.

Your short friend has reappeared with the Monster Kid, and while MK runs to greet Mettaton under the mistletoe, Sans takes in the spectacle and rolls his eyes at you. You giggle. Sans grins and ‘ports out again. You’re left wondering at the silly, happy feeling you got just from sharing that brief glance with him.

Despite his reassurances, he does look rather tired when he finally arrives with Grillby in tow. Once again, the fire elemental is dressed in semi-formal attire, slacks and a vest over a white shirt, and he’s the only adult who’s not bearing gifts or accompanying someone who is. You feel a little bit of trepidation as Grillby approaches you and makes a small, European-style bow, one hand in front of his stomach and the other behind his back. You’re still afraid you might be burned, but you’re not sure how to respond to so archaic a greeting, so you gather your courage and offer him your hand. Grillby takes your hand in his own and, instead of shaking it, lifts it by the fingers, squeezes it gently, and then releases it. His hand was very warm, but not hot enough to be uncomfortable. You wonder how it’s possible that Grillby’s fire doesn’t burn.

“Grillby, right?” you ask, still marveling at the feeling of his hand on yours. His flames had brushed and tickled lightly against your skin. Instead of feeling flesh behind them as you’d expect, Grillby feels like air made solid: when he took your hand, it was as if a hot wind blew against your fingers, growing stronger until your hand was supported by it.

_He really_ is _made of flame,_ you think to yourself in wonder, as Grillby nods in answer to your question. His face seems to crinkle a bit around the place his eyes should be, giving the impression of a smile. He makes a few gestures with his hands. It looks like some sort of sign language, but unfortunately, you don’t understand. Realizing this, Grillby cocks his head at you, crinkling his forehead this time as if raising his eyebrows inquisitively, and uses an index finger to make a twisting motion down one side of his face, as if twirling a lock of hair.

“Roxy?” you ask, comprehension dawning. Your friend’s sweet curls fall in just that way. Grillby nods. “She’s at her family home. She’s got a big family and it takes them a lot of work to get ready for Christmas, so I don’t get to see much of her at this time of year.” The fire elemental nods in understanding, gives you a small bow and another smile, and moves away. Sans pulls up beside you, watching him go. “Is it just me,” you say to the skeleton, “Or does he look disappointed?”

Sans eyes Grillby. “definitely disappointed,” he confirms. “see how he’s rounding his shoulders?”

“Oh, yeah. Huh.”

Sans cocks a smile at you. “with no voice and no face, grillbz can be pretty hard to read if you don’t know him well. what’s bugging him?”

“He asked about Roxy and I told him she wasn’t here.”

“huh.”

The two of you surreptitiously scan Grillby as he converses in sign with Frisk, who’s signing brightly back at him.

“let’s go get ‘er,” Sans says suddenly.

You grin widely. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**  
> 
> 
> Despite his tendency to kiss people on the lips, I personally see Papyrus as asexual. He’s far too innocent for me to be comfortable trying to shoehorn him into any romantic relationship. It would feel almost like pedophilia.
> 
> Handshake etiquette a couple hundred years ago: a gentleman never takes a lady’s hand unless it’s offered, and then he only shakes it if she’s his friend. When offered a female acquaintance’s hand, a gentleman should take it warmly, but gently and briefly. Grillbz already has “warmly” covered pretty well. :P
> 
> Sign languages (yes, there are many) are NOT assistance devices created by hearing people. Rather, they are languages in their own right that have almost exclusively been developed by the deaf and mute communities that use them. They developed independently of and parallel to each other, and therefore, the sign you use for a particular thing always depends on where you’re from, just like words in spoken languages. Following from this, Grillby doesn’t use any known human sign vocabulary, but rather uses a language that evolved within the nonvocal/atypical-vocal monster community. I’m not going to spend much time describing his signs because they won’t be recognizable to anyone.
> 
> Paps wasn’t supposed to kiss Checkers. Neither was Undyne. Someone help! These characters are out of control!


	12. Eye of the Beholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many gifts and some phone numbers are exchanged, and another mystery of monster biology is revealed.

_ You _

 

Since Sans doesn’t know where Roxy lives, the two of you leave by the door. You’re a little disappointed that you won’t get to ‘port with him again, but since one passenger seems to be his limit, it wouldn’t have worked out that well in any case. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him glancing up at the mistletoe as you leave and flushing a little. You can feel yourself blushing, too, and you turn your face away for a minute, trying to get your expression under control as Sans follows you down the stairwell. At the bottom of the stairs, the two of you glance at each other again. You blush, share a laugh, and look away from each other once more.

“Do we need to talk about that?” you venture, half-joking.

“absolutely not. this one?” He indicates your little white Taurus.

“Yep.”

Sans opens the driver’s side door.

“What’re you doing? It’s my car. I drive.”

“i’m gettin’ the door for you, lady,” he laughs. You laugh with him, and get in. Sans gets in on the other side, tossing a book and some papers onto the back seat to make room.

“Sorry,” you apologize. “I’m usually the only one in the car, so I just throw my junk on the passenger seat.”

“i ain’t complaining. you’ve seen my room.”

“Well… it was dark in there,” you circumnavigate, and start the car. Sans chuckles.

The two of you converse easily on the ride out of town. Sans’s laid-back demeanor and quick wit keep you happy and comfortable, despite the knowledge that you’re probably missing dinner right now. “I can’t believe I cut out of my own party,” you snicker. “Worst. Hostess. Ever.”

“nah, you saw it. they made themselves right at home. ‘sides, it’s for a good cause.”

“Meddling in people’s love lives?”

“yup. excellent cause. also has great entertainment value.” Sans chuckles.

“What’re you, an old woman?”

“nope, just old.”

You blink. Did Sans just… volunteer information? You glance at him. His smile has become slightly fixed and he’s staring straight ahead. No, that wasn’t volunteered. That was a slip-up.

It occurs to you that you should probably pretend you didn’t pick up on it.

“How old?” you ask curiously.

Dang it.

“hey, do i ask you _your_ age?” Sans parries.

***SPARE***

“You don’t seem very old,” you offer.

Sans gratefully accepts the escape route. “depends on who you compare me to, really. isn’t age in the eye of the beholder?”

“Actually, we have calendars and things, so, no, it’s pretty straightforward. You’re thinking of beauty.” The car crests a hill, and a clean white farm house comes into view, backed with a wide expanse of wintry meadow and accented with dormant oak and maple trees. The house itself is lovely, but the memories of fun and family you’ve gotten from it are where its true charm lies. _“Beauty’s_ in the eye of the beholder,” you murmur, smiling.

As you pull into the driveway, Sans’s bony hand slips into yours where it dangles off the end of the car’s armrest.

“Wh-what are you doing?” you ask, startled, hitting the breaks a little too hard.

“i be holdin’ ‘er,” Sans replies as if the answer was obvious. You give him an astonished stare. He’s grinning, but he’s also blushing, and he lets your hand go once he’s made the joke. You stare at him until he starts to squirm. “sorry, too far? i didn’t want to miss the opportunity.”

A beat more, and you burst into raucous laughter. Sans’s grin returns as you crack up. He leans back in his seat with a satisfied air. “That’s the smoothest line anyone’s ever given me,” you gasp, trying to catch your breath.

“heh. i try.” Sans rubs the back of his skull, grinning like the cat that ate the canary and blushing like the pet-sitter that let it happen.

Your knock at the door is answered by a man in his late twenties: Roxy’s older brother Jude.

“Hey!” he greets you happily, and then startles as he notices Sans for the first time.

“Hey, Jude,” you reply, smiling. “This is my friend Sans.”

“‘sup.”

“Hi,” Jude responds, but he’s frowning at Sans, not sure what to think of him yet.

“Is Roxy home?” you ask. Maybe giving Jude something else to focus on will help him assimilate Sans’s presence faster.

“Yeah,” Jude replies, turning back to you and opening the door wide so you and Sans can enter. “Yeah, sorry, she’s doing dishes. We just finished dinner, but there’s food left if you want some.”

“No thanks, I’m just having a little Christmas party and I wanted to know if she’d come over for a while.”

“HEY ROXY!” Jude shouts. You flinch at his volume.

“WHAT?” Roxy’s voice comes from the interior of the house. You take Sans’s arm and start pulling him towards the kitchen. Behind you, Jude continues to shout.

“YOU WANNA GO TO A CHRISTMAS PARTY?”

“WITH YOU?”

“With us!” you announce, popping into the kitchen and sticking out your arms in a “ta-dah!” gesture.

“Sweetie!” Roxy abandons a sink full of suds to come throw her arms around you. She didn’t dry her hands first, so now you have wet, sudsy spots on your jacket. Then, “Sans!” Roxy exclaims, and makes a move to launch herself at your friend as well, but Sans holds his hands out in front of him, alarmed, and Roxy changes her mind about tackle-hugging him. There are seven people having after-dinner coffee at the long kitchen table, ranging in age from a grandmotherly old lady to a boy who looks like he’s about twelve. When you and Sans first came into view, they all displayed the same reaction Jude did, joy at seeing you followed by confusion and awkwardness when they spotted Sans. Now that Roxy’s hug has been averted, Sans gives them all an easy smile and the same lazy wave he gave Roxy’s older brother.

“So, do you wanna spend a little time at my place?” you ask. “It might be the last time we get to hang out there.” As your best friend, Roxy is one of the only people you’ve told about your housing troubles.

“Yeah, sure, that sounds good,” Roxy says cheerily. “Just let me finish up the silverware and we can go. I wanna be back before midnight, though: that’s when we do the midnight eggnog.”

“Yeah, we’ll get you back by then.” You pull up a chair at the table and Sans follows suit. “This is Sans,” you say to the table at large. “He’s my best guy friend.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sans blush and grin at his knees.

Roxy looks over her shoulder at you. “‘Cause I’m your best girl friend?”

“This way I get two best friends. It’s better.”

“As long as I get a best guy friend, too.”

“As long as I _approve_ of him.”

Roxy sticks her tongue out at you cheerfully and turns back to the sink. Silence reigns at the table. Everyone is staring at Sans.

“so,” Sans says casually, “anyone here play yahtzee?”

Grandma Marge replies tartly, “My game’s old maid. Lets me pretend I am one.” She cackles, and Sans snickers.

“you play poker?”

“That depends. You a betting man? Or monster? Whatever.”

Sans’s grin widens.

“Please don’t start poking her,” you say quickly.

“aww, you never let me have any fun.”

At that, the table erupts in laughter, and just like that, Sans is accepted into the group. The nine of you sit around cracking jokes for a few minutes while Roxy rinses the last of the silverware and drains the dish water, and when she’s done the three of you leave the house together.

As Sans gets your door again, your stomach rumbles loudly. Roxy nudges you. “Shoulda gotten a plate of food, girl!” Sans, in contrast, points at your belly and laughs.

“What?” you ask him, disgruntled.

“a-ha-ha! it made a noise!” When he says this, Roxy cracks up. Sans puts his skull down by your stomach, listening closely to it. “do it again!” he demands giddily.

“I can’t control it; it just happens.” Right on cue, your stomach grumbles again. Sans laughs delightedly.

“why is it happening?” All of a sudden, he’s like a little kid, desperate for any information you can give him on this fascinating phenomenon.

“I’m hungry.” You decide to elaborate after a moment; if Sans is anything like you, he’ll want more than just a two-word answer. “Usually, when human stomachs make a lot of noise, it’s because they need food.”

“why’s that? i mean, like, how does it work?”

“I… don’t know?” Honestly, it never occurred to you to ask why stomachs growl. “I think when you’re hungry, your stomach cramps, and the cramps move air around in it or something?” Your belly rumbles a little more as you finish speaking. Sans, with his ear hole pressed to your stomach, laughs again.

“wild.”

You can’t help smiling. Sans is pretty cute when he’s learning.

“welp, if your stomach’s hungry we’d better get back there and feed it.”

You just hope Papyrus and the others saved some dinner for you.

* * * * *

You needn’t have worried. Papyrus made enough of his special spaghetti to feed an army. Almost everyone has finished eating by the time the three of you arrive, but your gangly skeleton friend and Undyne are still going strong, if “going strong” can mean eating slowly with great perseverance and not a little regret for ill-advised challenges. They seem to be fighting for the title of “Grand Spaghetti-Eater of Greatest Renown,” and at this point they’re both looking a little green around the gills (Undyne literally). The rest of the party is crowded into the kitchen to cheer them on, and Asgore is liberally greasing the wheels of it all by keeping the adults’ glasses full of eggnog or champagne, whichever they seem to prefer. You, Sans, and Roxy get plates for yourselves and move from the kitchen back into the living room to eat on the couch. You’re not sure you want to see the end of the competition. Or, rather, you’re certain you _don’t_ want to see the end of it.

“Someone’s gonna either vomit or explode,” Roxy deadpans, putting your thoughts into words.

“paps can’t bear to lose a spaghetti-related contest, and undyne can’t bear to lose.” Sans sighs. “it’s kinda tragic.” He takes a bite of his own spaghetti, his expression one of delighted anticipation.

You lean over against his shoulder and poke his cheek. “That is _not_ a tragic expression.”

“don’t forget that tragedy also makes for great entertainment.”

A flaming hand reaches between you and Roxy to tap her on the shoulder from behind. Your friend spins around, and on seeing Grillby, jumps to her knees on the couch, probably to pull him into an enthusiastic hug as per her usual fashion.

Unfortunately, he’d taken the opportunity to begin one of his polite bows.

The two collide with a muffled thwack.

Roxy curses, a hand pressed to her forehead, and Grillby makes a crackly popping noise, like a log splitting in a campfire. He’s clutching his face directly under his glasses. It looks like Roxy head-butted him in the bridge of the nose. The pair stare at each other for a shocked moment, and then Grillby’s flames die down a bit and he reaches for Roxy’s forehead, his attitude one of abject contrition, just as Roxy bursts into laughter. Grillby draws back, surprised, flames growing brighter again.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” Roxy guffaws. “That was… oh my gosh… that… that was the WORST!” Roxy doubles over, laughing so hard she’s crying. Grillby’s flames pale to a hot white and he fiddles self-consciously with a button on his vest. “C’mere, you,” Roxy finishes, and pulls the fire elemental into a hug. Grillby doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands; they hover over Roxy’s waist, floating up and down her sides uncertainly, before he finally settles on patting her on the shoulder blade awkwardly.

The activity on Roxy’s end of the couch has compelled you to scoot up against Sans in order to be out of the way. You suddenly realize that your back is pressed into his chest and you’re practically sitting in his lap. To see his expression, you’d have to turn around to look behind you, and because you know you’d be mere centimeters from his face again, you don’t want to risk it.

His ribcage rises and falls with his strange sourceless breath. You glance down and notice that his hands are fisted into the couch cushions. Uh oh, that’s a lot of tension. You scoot away from him a little and finally turn to look at him. Sans looks back at you, face flushed bright pink, and grins, flicking his glance back towards Roxy and Grillby. You recognize it as an attempt to distract you, but you obligingly follow his lead and refocus on them.

They’ve traded phones and are adding their numbers to each other’s contact list.

“So…” Roxy says, cocking her eyebrow amusedly as they pass the phones back to each other, “What’s your name?”

You and Sans laugh. “Aren’t you doing things a little bit backward?” you ask her as her phone chirps. Roxy opens the message, smiles happily, and looks up at the fire elemental.

“It’s nice to meet you, Greg,” she says warmly.

Sans’s jaw drops. You giggle and nudge his chin until his mouth clicks closed again.

_“greg?”_

Grillby signs something to him, the fiery suggestion of a cocked eyebrow hovering over his glasses.

“yeah, well, the icecaps are all actually named icecap,” Sans replies, a wide grin growing over his face. “how was i supposed to know you had a grown-up name?”

Grillby makes a few wry gestures, amusement somehow written on his featureless face. His meaning is clear even to you: _You could have asked._ You laugh. Sans chuckles, too.

“sorry, buddy, guess i just took everyone else’s word for it.” Grillby pats Sans on the shoulder and signs something else.

“What was that?” Roxy asks.

“he says he’s been grillby for a really long time,” Sans translates. “that we might be the only ones alive who know his real name, aside from his daughter.”

Roxy frowns a little. “Daughter?” Grillby pales in his unique blush and types something into his phone.

“Oh…” Roxy says, face falling. “I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Grillby pats her on the shoulder and texts something else. Roxy smiles, a little sadly. “Ignea, huh? What’s she like?”

“Are they talking about the wife or the daughter?” you whisper to Sans.

“iggy’s his daughter,” Sans replies, returning your whisper with his own, breathing the words into your ear. “she’s in high school. she’s cool, in a punky way. dyes herself green.”

“Her hair, you mean?”

Sans smirks. “herself. like, her whole self. boric acid paste. lasts for about a week and then she needs to reapply it. as long as she doesn’t burn it off, i mean. the effect is pretty rad, if i do say so myself.”

“One, is this, like, something you helped her with? ‘Cause you sound pretty proud of it. Two, _rad?”_

“don’t judge. colloquialisms are hard to get the hang of. and, yeah, i made up the paste for her. it’s easy and cheap; she coulda done it herself if she paid a little more attention in chemistry class.”

“So, wait, did she just walk up to you and say, ‘Hey, I want to change my color, do something about it?’”

“pretty much.”

You notice that Grillby and Roxy are gone. They probably went to watch Papyrus and Undyne face off over pasta. You and Sans are the only ones in the living room now. Great. You’ve been abandoned again.

Though it’s also kind of nice to have Sans to yourself.

“Are you known for science-y stuff, then? How’d she know to come to you?”

“known for science-y stuff,” Sans confirms shortly, looking a little uncomfortable with the direction this conversation is taking. “also known for side-businesses,” he adds hopefully. Okay, he’ll tell you about under-the-table transactions he’s been involved in, but doesn’t want to talk about the science part of his life? Weird.

“Hmm,” you hum, intrigued, but don’t ask any more questions. It’s a little discouraging how reluctant Sans is to talk about himself. You keep thinking you’ve established a decent amount of trust with him, and then he refuses to tell you things. It hurts your heart a little. Instead of prying or sulking, you decide to get him back by saying casually, “I’ve always had a thing for nerds.”

Sans blinks and blushes. You realize you love making him do that.

If only you were more sure about why.

You catch yourself staring at Sans, who’s staring back at you. Your face feels hot; you must be blushing, too. You know it’s not polite to maintain eye contact for so long, but you can’t seem to look away. His eyes are dilated again, his breathing a little rapid. Not sure what your intentions are, you start to lean slowly towards him, spurred by instinct and a vague desire to be closer, perhaps subconsciously trying to soothe the ache caused by his habit of pushing you away. Sans holds his position, and your gaze, and you can see him struggling to maintain his composure. You can’t tell whether he wants to lean towards you as well, or lean away to avoid you. Your lips tingle with the memory of your kiss under the mistletoe. As you close the distance between the two of you, his eye sockets drift shut. A shaky sigh escapes him.

Then Undyne retches loudly from the kitchen. The sound is followed by a groan from Alphys and a cheer from the rest of the onlookers.

You snap backwards, sitting up straight and wide-eyed. Your heart is racing.

What was that? Were you…

You _were._

You almost kissed Sans.

And he almost let you.

Sans is blinking rapidly himself, as if coming out of a daze. He’s as red as you’ve ever seen him, and after a moment he grins at you a bit woodenly, stands up, and announces, “welp, better go congratulate the champ.” Undyne retches again. You grimace. Sans saunters into the kitchen, hands in his pockets, as you will your heart to slow down.

 _Okay, cool your jets, girl,_ you think to yourself. You don’t know for certain how you feel yet, but you _do_ know Sans. And you know you can’t play with his feelings, whatever they are. He seems pretty together, sure, and you can tell he’s a strong person. But you haven’t forgotten the inner fragility you saw at the housewarming. The way he clung to you as if you were the only solid thing in a world of empty shadows. The heat and dampness of his tears soaking through your shirt. How he shuddered at first, like his own little world was experiencing an earthquake that shocked its foundations so badly they crumbled.

You never want to hurt Sans.

_Never._

So you need to get your shit together. A fling is _not_ an option.

You wander to the window and look out over the courtyard. On the other side of it, you can make out Mrs. Griggs’s floor-level living space, and you catch her staring at your apartment with a stressed, sour look on her face.

Of course. She knows the place is full of monsters. You suppose your friends are damaging her business and its reputation.

Screw it.

You turn your back on her and walk away from the window. You could close the blinds, but Sans is right: she can’t kick you out twice. Let her frown censoriously at your friends for as long as she likes. It’ll do her good to get some of that scowling out of her system. You decide it’s time to join the rest of the party, and to that end, you head for the kitchen.

Everyone’s talking cheerfully with each other, and not just about the spaghetti-eating challenge. The two most concerned with _that_ little piece of nonsense are still sitting in their chairs at the table, Undyne hunched over, head between her knees with Alphys rubbing her back, and Papyrus with his head planted on the table, arms laid out straight in front of him. Sans is ministering to him in the same way Alphys is caring for Undyne. The floor is a lot… _cleaner_ than you expected to find it. Did Undyne not throw up?

You sidle over to Alphys. “I thought I heard Undyne retching,” you say, fishing for information. (Heh… Undyne. Fishing. Oh, god, Sans is rubbing off on you.)

“Y-yeah, she f-fought a little too hard,” Alphys replies cheerfully enough, continuing to rub her girlfriend’s back comfortingly.

“Woulda won, too,” Undyne groans. “Papyrus cheated.”

“THE GREAT PAPYRUS NEVER CHEATS. AND YOU WILL NEVER BEAT ME AT SPAGHETTI,” Papyrus groans back weakly.

“I _taught_ you spaghetti,” Undyne retorts. “Guh…”

“paps offered her dessert,” Sans clarifies. He points to Toriel’s magnificent pie, sparkling on the counter like a vision of indulgence.

“N…no… more…” Undyne moans, and retches again, hard. You step backwards in alarm, but nothing comes up.

“Do… uh… do monsters not vomit?” you ask the room at large.

“What’s vomit?” MK shoots back inquisitively. Everyone else looks at you, too. You flush and twist your hands together awkwardly. You glance at Frisk, silently pleading for help, but she looks more amused at the situation than anything else and doesn’t seem inclined to interject.

Instead, Roxy comes to the rescue. “It’s when what you ate comes back up your throat.”

“So you get to eat it again?” MK says. “That sounds _awesome!”_

“Uh, no,” you reply, getting your sea legs back under you, as it were. “No, it’s pretty awful actually. It’s really a messy, uncomfortable experience, and once the food’s been in your stomach it tastes terrible.” Undyne retches again, mildly this time. “When it happens, though, we humans tend to make noises like that.”

“yeah, we don’t do that… that vomit thing,” Sans says. “prob’ly ‘cause we don’t have stomachs. Food turns to magic as soon as we eat it, so there’s nothing to come back up.”

“So why all the retching?” you ask.

Sans shrugs. “’s like hiccups. it just happens. except, well, we know *why* this happened.”

Undyne makes a miserable gurgling noise. “‘M gonna kill youuuuu…” she groans. “Nerrrrrrd…”

“so,” Sans announces, grinning widely and ignoring Undyne. “pie or presents?”

* * * * *

You sit beside Sans again as your guests exchange their presents. Monster gift exchanges seem to be as fun and casual as any other activities they’re involved in: people are tossing presents at each other, tearing them open immediately, failing to take turns or make polite conversation. Exclamations of delight and the sounds of laughter fill the apartment. Shreds of wrapping paper are flying through the air and littering the floor. There’s a distinct absence of cards, which is just as well, as you’re pretty sure this crowd would ignore any card in favor of the gift it’s attached to. You sigh happily. It’s just like having Christmas with a house full of excitable children, and it makes you feel like a kid again, too.

Unlike most of the guests, Toriel has made it a point to get presents for _everyone,_ which means she brought one for you, as well. You unwrap it eagerly. It’s a cozy purple knit scarf that looks handmade. It has your initials in elaborate, curly lettering embroidered in fine golden yarn at both ends, like a fancy border. It’s beautiful. You wrap it around your neck happily and press the end to your face, enjoying the softness of the weave. Toriel is the queen of all monsters, and could easily have bought you just about anything, and the fact that she chose to put the time and effort into _making_ something just for you is so touching it brings tears to your eyes.

Papyrus got you a green Christmas sweater with Santa and his reindeer-powered sleigh arching over the front of it. You laugh and pull it on over your t-shirt. You toss him your gift to him, a cookbook titled, “Pastas of the World,” which he exclaims joyfully over and immediately opens to a random page, quickly losing himself in exotic noodle dishes.

There’s no present from Sans. You’re not surprised enough to be disappointed, though: the small skeleton makes a point of doing as little as possible, and as he’ll be providing his brother with a pile of presents tomorrow, you wouldn’t want to ask him to put in extra effort. The night will be busy enough for him.

You _do_ have a gift for _him,_ though. You hope he likes it.

He smiles at you as you hand him your present to him, and opens it with a little more patience than you’ve noticed from the other monsters. When he sees the skeleton-print sweatshirt, he lets loose that sudden, delighted laugh you’ve come to love so much. He quickly shucks his hoodie and, like you, pulls the sweatshirt over his tee.

“how do i look?” he asks you happily, spreading his arms to put the shirt on display.

“Silly and handsome,” you reply promptly, and he laughs again.

“thanks, checkers,” he says warmly, fingering the sleeve of the sweatshirt. “i’ll wear it all the time. or i’ll be naked and you’ll never know.”

You crack up. It takes you several minutes to completely still the giggles.

* * * * *

The party starts winding down around eleven, when the kids start getting tired. Sans brings MK, Frisk, Toriel and Asgore home, and then insists on sending Mettaton home: the robot has had far too much to drink and is slurring, stumbling, and flirting with anything that will hold still long enough. Napstablook patiently herds Mettaton out the door with many stammered apologies. You do your best to be reassuring, but you’re not sure he was able to accept your kind intentions. Poor Napstablook has some of the lowest self-esteem you’ve ever seen.

Grillby and Roxy are forced to say goodbye near midnight, since Roxy wants to be there for her family’s own pre-Christmas-morning celebration. Sans ‘ports her home, since he knows where she lives now. You’re amused to hear a startled “eep!” pop out of the black hole in the world right before it closes. Then Sans returns, only to ‘port out again with Grillby. When Undyne and Alphys finally leave for a private “after-party” in their Winnebago, you heave a contented sigh and flop down on the couch between a tired-out Sans and a tipsy Papyrus. You lay your arms over the boys’ shoulders and they lean into your sides. Papyrus lays his head on top of yours. The three of you sit together for a moment, enjoying the comfort and quiet. You look up at the clock. It’s 1:45.

“Merry Christmas, guys,” you whisper.

* * * * *

You wake on Christmas morning feeling happy and peaceful. It takes you a moment to realize there’s a new addition to your room: a tiny Christmas tree is standing, lit and brightly decorated, on your bedside table. Underneath it is a small, flat box wrapped in gold paper.

You blink the sleep from your eyes and reach out to pick it up. There’s no name on it, but you know who it’s from. … And you’re not sure how you feel about him sneaking around in your room while you’re asleep, you think with a small, wry smile. Spooky scary skeleton.

You unwrap your gift happily.

It’s a charm bracelet.

You pull the thick golden chain out of its box and examine it in the morning light. It’s beautiful. A couple of white-enameled skeleton charms dangle near the clasp. A pair of socks, a smiley-face, a sun and cloud come next. You turn the bracelet, running your fingers over the charms, tears in your eyes and a smile on your face. An ice cream cone. A bowl of fruit and a banana. You laugh at that one. A plate of spaghetti. Where did he find a spaghetti charm? you wonder, chuckling. A glass of wine. You grimace a bit and flush, but the smile keeps tugging at the corners of your mouth. Sans must not be mad about that night you got drunk; otherwise, he wouldn’t have bought this charm for your bracelet. He must… You blush more and smile again. He must think of it fondly, for some reason. God knows why. A panda charm comes next. You think for a moment and then remember watching six hours of Kung-Fu Panda with your head in Sans’s lap. You laugh again. At the end of the bracelet hangs a beautifully-enameled Christmas tree with colorful ornaments dotted onto it and a tiny yellow star on top. You hold the bracelet to your forehead for a moment, laughing and crying at the same time, and then you put it on.

You never want to take it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~ Author's Note ~**
> 
> *sings*  
> Hey, Jude,  
> Don’t be dismayed  
> At the running gag  
> You are pursued by…  
> Remember  
> That all Judes have a hard life,  
> Always getting this answer  
> Whenever they say “Hi.” :P
> 
> We use boric acid as a buffer where I work. It also turns fire green. WITH SCIENCE!
> 
> Grillby’s full name is Gregory McGowan. McGowan (or MacGhabhan) is one of our copious trade names, the Gaelic version of “Smith.” (McGowan literally means, “son of the smith.”) This indicates that at least one and probably many of Grillby’s ancestors, perhaps appropriately, ran a forge.


	13. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a night's sleep suffers an abrupt interruption.

_ Sans _

 

Well, it’s been a wild few weeks. Ever since Paps and I met Checkers, it seems like it’s been one thing after another. Not that I’m complaining: I love doing nothing, but I’m also a big fan of entertainment, and life has certainly gotten interesting.

I set down the last box and stretch, easing a cramp out of my back. That done, I slump onto the full-sized bed, worn out from ‘porting back and forth so much. (I try not to notice that the bed smells like Checkers. I fail.) Man, Checkers has a lotta stuff. I’m not sure how we’re gonna find room for it all. I can store some boxes in the basement with my project junk, we’ve got an under-stair space and some closet space we can put boxes in, but if we just put all Checkers’s things into storage, how’s she ever gonna feel at home?

Yeah, I know, this is just ‘till she finds a better place. But, well…

Okay, it’s a little embarrassing to admit, but me and my bro are starting to think of her as family. I’d like her to feel like she belongs here with us. ‘Cause Paps and I feel that way.

Paps is sorta in denial about this being temporary.

I may have to get him a kitten when Checkers moves back out again. You know, to fill the hole she’ll probably leave.

C’mon, Sans, don’t look too far ahead. You’ll just fuck things up for yourself, and maybe for everyone else, too. One thing at a time.

I roll off Checkers’s bed and pick up my surprise gift to her, considering it for a moment. It’s an irregular little piece of art, and finding the right frame for it was kinda tricky. I ended up buying a nice mat to go behind it, in the hope that an attractive backdrop might make the whole thing look more balanced and well-designed. Of course, its utter lack of design was originally part of its charm, so I’m really not sure how well I’ve pulled this off.

I hope Checkers likes it.

And I hope Mrs. Griggs has a conniption.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway tells me Paps and Checkers are here with their own final load. I hurriedly prop the frame up on top of the dresser. It’s intended to be hung on the wall, but since I don’t know where she’ll want it, this’ll have to do for now.

Checkers had to rent a storage shed to keep most of her furniture and appliances and things in, but we’ve got her bed and dresser, some bookshelves, and a glass-fronted china cabinet set up in the former office for her. A china cabinet. For her girly decorative things, I betcha.

Paps and I have never had a girl livin’ with us before. I’m kinda nervous about it. What if we’re not clean enough for her? Or, you know, how do we deal with the weird girl stuff she might leave laying around? _Human_ girl stuff? I’ve got a vague idea that some human girl things are mysterious and sort of taboo. Not sure what those things are for, and the idea of researching it makes me uncomfortable. Come to think of it, Paps’n’I’ve never lived with a human, either. Do we even have all the stuff humans need?

Well, it _is_ a human house. There’s a human bathroom and everything.

Ooh. Better make sure everything’s working right in there. Apparently, bathrooms are pretty important for humans. And girls.

Shit.

Now I’ve psyched myself out.

I hoof it to my room as Paps kicks the front door open, carrying a stack of boxes like they’re full of feathers with his awesome superhero powers.

“don’t kick the doors, paps,” I correct him absently on my way past. I close my own door behind me and slide into the chair in front of my computer desk. I pull up my web browser and start Googling frantically.

It takes me waaaay too long to find a combination of words that will get me descriptions of how a human bathroom is supposed to work. And only a couple minutes to determine that ours is, in fact, working correctly. Not that I’m proud of this, but I spent quite a while in there when Paps and I first moved in, examining things and… well… I took some stuff apart. Good to know I put it all back together right.

(In case anyone cares, turns out a flush toilet is an amazing and elegant piece of mechanical art. When I’m bored I put Cheetos in it.)

“BROTHER! WHERE ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU NOT HERE MAKING OUR NEW SISTER WELCOME?”

_Sister?_ “bro, her living here doesn’t make her our sister!” I call out. Jeez. God forbid. I bang my head on the computer desk, gently, so as not to make noise.

“BAH, YOU ARE A GRUMP AND ALSO YOU ARE WRONG. NOW COME OUT HERE AND WE WILL ALL HAVE TEA TOGETHER.”

Yeaaah, he’s probably right. I _am_ a grump. I lever myself out of my computer chair with a sigh and travel downstairs to the kitchen. On my way, I pass Paps and Checkers’s own load of boxes, stacked against the living room wall. We can figure out what to do with them later. For now, just getting them all here was enough.

Hey, if it was up to me, they’d stay there forever. We could keep potted plants on them.

Checkers and Paps are sitting at the kitchen table talking. There’s a stack of tea boxes sitting on the counter and three mugs waiting to perform their life’s purpose. The kettle’s grumbling to itself on the stove. Checkers looks up at me as I come in, and we smile at the same time.

“That’s everything,” she confirms for me. “I’ll start unpacking tomorrow.” I pull out the chair beside her and sit down.

“feel free to scatter your stuff all over the house,” I tell her. “it annoys the hell outta paps.”

“SANS! DO NOT ENCOURAGE OUR SISTER TO ENGAGE IN YOUR FILTHY PROCLIVITIES!” I choke. Dude, WHAT?

Checkers busts up laughing. I have to grin, seeing the humor on her face. When she laughs, she just _shines._

Oh, god. Living with her is gonna be so _hard._ Amazing and hard.

“Thanks again, guys, for letting me crash here for a while,” Checkers says, voice low. She looks kinda shy and worried. I’m guessing she feels like she’s imposing on us? The thought makes me a little sad.

“checkers, we’re really happy to have you here,” I start, hoping I can come up with something to say that will make her feel at home.

“IT WILL BE SO MUCH FUN!” Paps butts in joyfully. “WE WILL HAVE A SLUMBER PARTY AND WATCH MOVIES TOGETHER AND DO PUZZLES! AND PERHAPS WE WILL PLAY BOARD GAMES! HUMANS HAVE MANY BOARD GAMES BUT THEY RARELY SURVIVE IN THE DUMP BECAUSE BY ‘BOARD’ THEY MEAN ‘CARDBOARD,’ WHICH FALLS APART WHEN IT GETS WET. I ALWAYS WANTED ONE THAT WAS NOT A SOGGY BLURRY MUSH! THEN SANTA BROUGHT ME ONE! WE SHOULD PLAY IT! IT HAS A TINY DOG AND A SHOE AND I SHALL OWN _ALL_ THE PROPERTIES!”

Checkers laughs happily, and I can see all the anxiety just dissipate right out of her. Aw man, Paps is just too cool to be real sometimes. I can feel my own tension ebb as Checkers relaxes. “That sounds great. CB, you up for it? It’ll be a nice way to celebrate a successful move.”

My soul lurches in my chest at the smile she’s giving me. Hell yeah, I’m up for anything, I think dopily to myself. I have to force my mouth to form the words, “you sure? i can pretty much guarantee paps’ll win.”

“Oh you can, can you?” Suddenly there’s competition charging the air. Checkers’s grin has turned mischievous. Oh god, oh god, I love that look on her.

“is that a challenge? ‘cause i’m game if you are.” Ba-dump psssh. Puns to the rescue.

Checkers gives me a mock glare. “Papyrus?”

“YES, SISTER?” Paps, please stop. It’s making me feel weird. I do _not_ think of Checkers as my sister.

“Could you get the game out? Oh, and we’ll need Chinese take-out for this.” She’s still staring at me with that alluring smirk on her face. Not sure what my own face looks like. I’m trying to smirk back, and generally I’m pretty good at fakin’ the casual, but there’s a distinct possibility my pupils are little hearts right now.

Paps claps his hands delightedly and scampers from the room.

“Dump?” Checkers asks me curiously once Paps is out of earshot.

My dopey romantic feelings sink down into my toes at the question, leaving me a little somber and a whole lot relieved. Don’t know how much longer I could’ve coped with all the tension. “ah, yeah,” I admit, my hand going automatically to the back of my skull. It tends to take refuge there when it’s not sure what to do with itself. I force it back down and continue, “in the underground, we got a lot of stuff by picking through the junk that would fall down this one big sinkhole. we just called it the dump. it’s amazing what humans throw away. but, uh, i guess you’ve already heard the board games were basically unplayable.”

Checkers is giving me a strange look, sorta intense and sorta sad. It’s not pity, really: it kinda makes me feel like she’s trying to figure me out.

“it wasn’t that bad,” I rush to clarify. “like i said, we got a lot of good stuff for free there. we weren’t… we weren’t in need, or anything. it’s just, down there…” I falter. Checkers is listening way too intently to this. Why is she so focused on understanding me? My soul flutters as I realize that’s exactly what she’s doing: understanding me. That look on her face… it’s sympathy and interest mixed with… with tenderness. My face heats up, and I nervously pull my hood up to hide my blush. I’ve never seen her look at me that way before. I’m not sure what to do with myself now. “down there,” I force the words past a tightness in my throat that’s got nothing to do with the memories, “there wasn’t a lot of space, and there wasn’t much to go around. nobody starved or anything; we were all pretty much okay and we helped each other out.”

“I bet you did,” Checkers murmurs, resting her chin in her hand and smiling gently at me. I have to clear my throat before I can continue.

“we just made do with what we had. the dump was one of the few places we could get… uh… frivolities, i guess.”

“WHAT KIND OF CHINESE HUMAN NOODLES WOULD YOU LIKE, SIBLINGS?” Paps cuts in, poking his head around the doorway, holding my phone in his hand. We gotta get him a new phone. Every time he makes a call from my cell I’m forced to remember that time Checkers made me squeeze his so hard it exploded. “ALSO, ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT THE DUMP? IT WAS MY FAVORITE PLACE TO DIG THROUGH TRASH! THERE WAS ALWAYS SOMETHING NEW AND EXCITING THERE! ONE TIME I FOUND ASTRONAUT FOOD! I LOOKED FOR THE ASTRONAUT, BUT I THINK SOMEONE ELSE MUST HAVE GOTTEN TO HIM FIRST.”

Checkers and I share a chuckle. “bro,” I try, “nobody throws away astronauts. we’ve been over this.”

“OBVIOUSLY YOU ARE NOT AWARE THAT NASA HAS CANCELLED THEIR SPACE SHUTTLE PROGRAM,” Paps declares haughtily, ending the discussion. Can’t argue with that. “AT ANY RATE, THE DUMP WAS ONE OF MY FAVORITE PLACES! BUT IT IS AS NOTHING COMPARED TO THE MIRACLE THAT IS MARKIE-MART!” Paps’s eyes sparkle and he clasps his hands together in an ecstasy of wonder.

Checkers smiles and gets up to give Paps a hug. He wraps his arms around her enthusiastically and picks her up, swinging her from side to side. “Papyrus?” her voice is muffled by his chest. “This is too much hug for me.” Paps cackles and sets her down. I snicker to myself: that was about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. And, man, Checkers has really settled into the friendship we all share. I can’t believe we’ve all been hanging out for less than a month. I’m so comfortable talking to her, and she deals with Paps so well, and… just…

My soul is warm when she’s around.

Don’t read too much into that, okay? We’ve established that I have, like, the world’s biggest crush on this girl, but that’s not what this is about.

It’s about family.

And how she feels like a part of mine.

“SO WHAT KIND OF CHINESE HUMAN NOODLES WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE WITH OUR CARDBOARD GAME?” Paps asks. I refrain from asking for ones with real Chinese humans in them. With a human actually present, I think that joke might be in poor taste. Heh.

“Do they have the kind without Chinese humans in them?” Checkers asks perkily. I snort and slump into the table, gasping laughter. Oh my god, she’s perfect! Tell her the “poor taste” pun! Do it!

I open my mouth to reply, but, incredibly, Paps beats me to it. “SISTER, THAT JOKE IS IN EXTREMELY POOR TASTE,” Paps scolds. Holy shit, he’s made my pun for me and he doesn’t even realize it! I’m sobbing with laughter now, clutching my stomach, hunched over in my chair and in serious danger of falling onto the floor.

“CB, are you okay over there?” Checkers is laughing, too, but not nearly as hard as I am.

“a-ha-ha-ha-ha!” I gasp, starting to feel a little sore from too much laughter. “g-go on without me, i’m not gonna make it… *snrk!*” Checkers chuckles, not getting the real joke, of course, but obviously not bothered by my weird reaction either. She rubs the back of my ribcage as I calm down. Oh man, that was too good. “shrimp lo mein,” I manage once I’ve caught my breath. “i want shrimp lo mein, bro.”

“AN EXCELLENT CHOICE, AS THAT IS THE SECOND-BEST LO MEIN! AFTER VEGETABLE LO MEIN! WHICH IS WHAT I AM HAVING!”

“Could I have some hot and sour soup and crab rangoon?” Checkers requests. Paps blinks at her.

“YES, OF COURSE,” he manages after a second.

“Uh, are you sure?” Checkers asks, giving him a questioning look.

“don’t sweat it, checkers, he’s just surprised you’re not getting noodles.”

“NYEH HEH HEH! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS ADEPT AT ADAPTING TO CHANGING CIRCUMSTANCES!” Paps puts my phone back to his ear hole and says, “WE WOULD LIKE… UM… HELLO? IS ANYONE THERE?”

“oh my god, there was someone on the line the whole time?!” I’m cracking up again, and Checkers is laughing with me, leaning into my back for support.

“THEY MUST HAVE LOST THE CONNECTION,” Paps mutters, punching numbers into the phone.

“Papyrus, you can’t just leave them waiting like that,” Checkers snickers.

“I COULD IF THE PHONES WERE NOT STUPID. HELLO? I WOULD LIKE TO ORDER SOME CHINESE HUMAN FOOD.”

Checkers and I continue to giggle, leaning on each other, as Paps places the order. I’m feeling light and silly and… just… happy. I’m happy. I know it can’t last, that this is only temporary, but it’s okay to enjoy it, right? Just for a little while?

It’s okay, right?

 

_ You _

 

Sans was right: Papyrus won.

You slump backwards in your seat at the kitchen table, tossing your hands in the air in defeat. “That’s it. I’m bankrupt.”

“NYEH HEH HEH! DO NOT WORRY, SIBLINGS, YOU MAY VISIT MY BANK FOR LOANS!” The gangly skeleton cackles gleefully, scooping up the game pieces and putting them away more carefully than you would have expected.

“park place claims its final victim,” Sans commiserates, and pats you heavily on the shoulder.

You glance up at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall: it’s almost midnight. The game went a lot longer than you’d thought it would: a fun pastime spent in good company made the time fly by.

You aren’t even tired.

But you have to work tomorrow, and you want a little extra time to yourself to get used to your new room.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” you announce, putting palms to the table to push yourself up.

Papyrus makes a disappointed noise. Sans pats him on the back fondly. “don’t worry, bro, she lives here now. we’ve got lots of time to do all the stuff you wanna do.”

“AND I SHALL SEE YOU IN THE MORNING!” Papyrus says excitedly as the realization hits him. “IT WILL BE GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN SO SOON! I SHALL MAKE WAFFLES!”

You laugh and bid your friends good night. Papyrus shouts it back cheerfully and Sans raises one hand in a lackadaisical wave. You head down the hall to the former office, feeling more comfortable and happy than you’d expected to be. You’d thought your first night in a new place, a place that wasn’t your own, would be a sad occasion. Worse, you’re imposing on your friends. You still feel guilty for it. They even helped you move! But they don’t seem upset or annoyed about any of it. They seem happy. Especially Papyrus. He’s seeing this whole thing as a sort of extended sleepover. Your heart warms, bringing a smile to your face, at the way he’s been calling you “Sister.”

It can’t last, you know that. Right now, you’re taking advantage of their kindness. You need to find a new place as soon as possible, preferably before you wear out your welcome. Papyrus and Sans are two of the best friends you’ve ever had. You’re renting the room from them, of course, but you refuse to forget that they’re doing you a favor, and the last thing you want to do is mooch off them until they can’t take it anymore.

You close your door behind you and turn to survey your new kingdom.

There’s a long rectangular frame on your dresser.

You approach it curiously and pick it up. Inside, presented prettily against a patterned mat, is a strip of light green wallpaper with childish flowers drawn in crayon, blooming cheerily around the words painstakingly etched in purple: “i lov dab.”

You hug the gift to you and laugh. Suddenly, you feel much more at home. This has to be a Sans thing. The sweetness of the gesture could have come from either brother, but the thought that went into this has the smaller skeleton written all over it.

Of course, he also pulled a strip of wallpaper right off the apartment wall. Oh, man, poor Mrs. Griggs!

You giggle again and fall backwards onto your bed, still clutching your “art” to your chest.

Your pillow still smells like home.

* * * * *

A choked cry and a muffled thump wake you from a dreamless sleep. You sit up in bed, startled, listening hard at first, before you realize the probable source of the noise.

Your room is directly below Sans’s.

He must have had another nightmare.

You lay back down in bed, planning to go back to sleep, but the memory of the panicked noise Sans made is intruding on your peace of mind. When you hear the quiet sound of a door closing, you slide out of bed and pad out into the hallway. You catch sight of a small, hunched, dark form outlined against the open front door before that, too, shuts quietly.

You’re struggling with the disoriented feelings that come from being suddenly awakened, especially strong here in a place you’re not accustomed to. You stifle a yawn with the back of a hand and consider going back to bed. Instead, you go to the front door, slip on your sneakers and coat, and step out into the winter night.

Sans is sitting on the steps leading down from the porch, staring up at the sky. The moon is nearly full, and so bright that you can make out shadows dappling the ground. Sans’s own shadow, small and dark, lays on the porch listlessly, a solemn echo of its caster. He turns as you step out the door. His pupils glow in the dark, but even now they don’t illuminate the hollows of his sockets: it’s as if the lights in his eyes hang in black voids. Again they remind you of stars in the night sky.

“sorry. guess i woke you.”

“It’s okay.” You step out into the moonlight. Sans scoots over on the step to make room, and you sit down beside him. “Do you have bad dreams very often?”

“mmm.” It’s a noncommittal noise that doesn’t invite further inquiry. You sigh, disappointed, and lean back on the heels of your hands, staring up at the stars.

“Nice night to be up. The stars are really clear.”

Sans turns his head and gazes at you for a moment. You don’t turn toward him right away, preferring to look at the stars a bit longer. Then you start to wonder what expression he’s wearing, so you look at him instead, but he’s already looking back up at the sky. You feel another little pang of disappointment. You keep missing each other.

He seems so far away right now.

You pull your coat closer around you and shiver. “It’s freezing out here,” you say. “You want me to bring you a blanket or something?”

Your friend looks at you again, startled. “uh… no, no thanks. do, uh… do _you_ want one?”

“… Maybe,” you admit, and shove your hands into your pockets.

Sans stands up and goes back inside. After a minute, he comes out again with a thick comforter bundled in his arms. He drapes it over your shoulders and sits down beside you again. You lift the edge of it and toss it over his shoulders as well. He stiffens for a second, and then, almost cautiously, he tugs his side of the blanket more firmly around himself. You lean your shoulder against his. After a moment’s hesitation, he leans back. Then a sigh escapes him, and his whole body seems to relax, settling more heavily against you. You suddenly realize something: this is the second time that physical contact has seemed to comfort him.

“i needed to see the sky,” Sans says suddenly, a quiet rumble against your arm. You realize you don’t need to hear anything more.

You understand.

You slip your arm around his waist and lean your head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around you in turn, and together you watch as the stars rotate against a black velvet sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~  
> **  
> 
> 
> Paps doesn’t really care for meat much. He’s a veggies guy. They make you big and strong, you know. All parents say so, and parents are always right.
> 
> For someone who always seems relaxed, Sans sure worries a lot.
> 
> When NASA retired all their space shuttles, I cried.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: When I’m Bored I Put Cheetos In It.


	14. Breaking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a fragile peace is disrupted.

_ You _

 

“I dunno, (Y/N), sounds to me like things are going great.” Roxy leans against the door to the freezer, fiddling with her phone. It looks like she’s texting someone.

“I guess they kind of are,” you concur reluctantly, picking at the dirt under your nails. It’s near closing time, and the night’s been so slow you’ve been able to get all your cleaning done early. You and Roxy will be able to leave together at 10 p.m., provided no other customers come wandering in. You’ve been spending the blessed downtime telling your friend all about your new living situation. Though you’re refusing stubbornly to let yourself feel at home, Papyrus and Sans have wasted no time in pulling you into their daily routines. You’ve been living with them for only two days, but you’ve already settled into the patterns of the household. Mornings start with Papyrus making breakfast. The two of you eat while you discuss your plans for the day. Halfway through the meal, Sans shuffles in, looking rumpled, and pours himself a cup of coffee. Before he’s had his caffeine, Sans is only semi-coherent.

His morning voice is low and husky. Though he rarely speaks before he’s fully awake, when you _do_ get to hear it, that voice makes things low in your body tighten and gives you the uncomfortable feeling that you’re on the verge of something huge, exciting, and totally inappropriate. You do your best to shut down your reaction each time, but you’ve been meeting with only limited success.

You haven’t told Roxy that you might have feelings for Sans. You’re not comfortable talking about it, not even to your best friend. Honestly, as long as all this remains unspoken, you can tell yourself it’s not happening, or that it’s not important.

You don’t want to have a crush on Sans. He’s too good a friend. You could ruin that all too easily.

In addition, to your embarrassment, you’re not sure how to feel about him being a different species. If you’re human and he’s not, does this… Sans thing… make you some kind of pervert? Should you… God. Should you be having _those_ kinds of thoughts about a literal skeleton?

Of course, you think Roxy and Grillby are cute together. You harbor no interspecies romance reservations where those two are concerned. Isn’t that a bit of a double standard? Why do you expect so much of yourself? Or are you just afraid of having to deal with other people’s reactions?

Well, at least one person already thinks you’re dating Papyrus, and is being an absolute dickweed about it. So right now you’re getting some of the repercussions of being with a monster while having gained none of the benefits.

That’s a discouraging thought.

By that logic, you should probably jump Sans’s bones when you get home.

You feel your face heat up at the unwelcome turn your thoughts have taken. Are still taking. Are sort of taking over. … How long is this going to continue?! You shake your head, trying to clear it, and pray to god Roxy can’t see your thoughts on your face.

“So why do you talk about it all like it’s a burden?” Roxy asks, continuing the conversation. Her phone chirps. She checks the message and giggles.

“It’s not a burden,” you protest. “It’s been great! It’s _me, I’m_ the burden!” You bury your face in your hands. That’s right, you’ve got enough to worry about without adding a questionable romance into the mix. One thing at a time.

Roxy walks up next to you and pats you on the shoulder, humoring you with a patient show of sympathy she doesn’t really feel. “As long as you’re at it, you should get them to buy you some stuff.”

“Argh!” You throw up your hands in dismay. You’ve always had a powerful instinct to be independent, to avoid needing others in any non-superficial way. Roxy doesn’t have that, and she doesn’t really understand what it’s like. This isn’t the first time she’s made a joke of it.

“You could move in with me instead,” Roxy offers. “You’ve slept over often enough.” She starts texting again.

_“No,”_ you insist, for the umpteenth time. “I need my own space. I can’t just live in indefinite slumber party mode.” You’d have to share a room with Roxy; her house is so full of family that there’s just no place for you. “Besides,” you continue, “You wouldn’t let me pay rent.”

Roxy scoffs. “You’re so weird sometimes. Hey, can we have a sleepover soon? I need to explore the skeleton house.”

“Yeah, sure,” you laugh. Then you ask wickedly, “Should we invite Grillby, too?”

Roxy fumbles her phone, blushes, and shoves it into her pocket.

It chirps.

You laugh.

“Seriously, Rox?”

_“How did you know?”_

“I didn’t.” You’re still laughing. “Coincidence. You’re seriously texting him _right now?”_

Her phone chirps again.

Roxy grabs you by the shoulders. “(Y/N), I really, _really_ like him!” Suddenly, her face has desperation written all over it.

You sober immediately. Teasing time is over. Your best friend is head over heels for someone you barely know. This is serious business.

“Is he good to you? Is he a good person? Have you met his daughter yet? Do you get along with her? How much older than you is he? He’s not a dirty old man, is he? Does he have a job? A car? … What kind?”

Roxy ticks off the points on her fingers, thinking hard. “He’s really sweet to me. He’s always thinking of other people and goes out of his way to help them. I met Iggy, she’s great, and I think she likes me, too. He’s… Oh, god, (Y/N), he’s like two thousand years old!”

You choke. _“Two thousand?_ You’re kidding me!”

“No, no I’m not, it’s not at all funny.” Roxy looks a little wild-eyed. Obviously, this has been bothering her. “He fought in the human-monster war! He was a general!”

“Jesus.” You run a hand through your hair, trying to pull your thoughts together. You look at your friend again. _“Two thousand?”_

“Give or take,” Roxy replies quietly, making a show of examining her sneakers. “B-but I don’t think he’s a dirty old man,” she continues, sounding more determined. “Monsters don’t age the same way we do. Iggy’s sixteen, and she says he was young when she was born, and he got older as she did, but not as fast as she did, I don’t know, the whole conversation was really hard for me to keep up with and she was talking about it all like it’s common knowledge. She said she’s about as grown as she’s gonna get, so he’s stopped aging again, and that she has to do the rest on her own, whatever that means. But anyway, he’s apparently a special kind of monster called a boss monster, and boss monsters only age when they have kids. They don’t get old _at all_ unless they have a _lot.”_

You consider this. You suppose age difference can’t mean as much when you’re dealing with a species that doesn’t age consistently. You’re still not sure how you feel about your best friend dating someone a couple millennia older than her, though.

“How old was his wife?” you ask, trying to get some idea of normal age differences for monsters.

“About five hundred years younger than him,” Roxy replies. You note that your friend has a lot of information. She’s obviously been talking to Grillby frequently, and more importantly, deeply. “They had trouble having kids. His wife had a weak soul, whatever that means. They wanted kids but she had trouble getting pregnant, and a couple times she _did_ get pregnant but they lost the baby.” Roxy and you share a moment of silence for the sorrow of little lives lost and the bitter disappointment of the would-be parents. “Anyway,” Roxy continues finally, “She finally managed to carry Iggy to term, but…” Roxy’s eyes fill with tears. You instinctively pull her to you in a hug. “(Y/N), Iggy thinks she killed her mom!” your friend wails into your shoulder. “Greg loves her so much, he’s so grateful for her, he’s never regretted what happened because he has Iggy! But she… she…”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” you murmur, rubbing Roxy on the back. Roxy sobs. You sigh. Your friend often feels others’ pain like it was her own, and now it seems she’s become entangled in a highly dramatic situation. As her best friend, you feel you have to disapprove. This can’t be good for her.

Roxy’s phone chirps again. She sniffs. “I’m gonna get that,” she announces weakly, and pulls her phone back out of her pocket. She reads the messages she’s been sent, and laughs. You observe her carefully as she quickly taps out a reply. Suddenly, though tears still streak her cheeks, she’s positively glowing.

You can’t disapprove of that.

It seems it would hurt her more to leave Grillby behind than it hurts her to be with him.

“Are you guys dating yet?” you ask.

Roxy giggles. “Not yet. But he texts me every day. And he’s so polite, (Y/N), he’s _so_ polite I can’t figure out how to get him to ask me out!” Then Roxy’s shoulders droop. “Maybe he doesn’t like me that way. Do you think he likes me?”

“Totally,” you assure her. “Pretty much the only thing he’s ever said to me is, _‘Where’s Roxy?’”_ Deliberately overdoing the impression, you pitch your voice high in a faux whine of desperation.

Roxy laughs and shoves your shoulder. “Shut up! He did NOT say that!”

“Did too.”

“Did not, and I know ‘cause he doesn’t talk. So there.” Her phone chirps again.

“He sure texts a lot, though,” you chuckle.

“You hush,” Roxy scolds, giggling, typing out a reply.

* * * * *

The two of you leave shortly after closing time, but because you live so close to your new home with the skeleton brothers, you bid Roxy farewell in the parking lot. You’ve been walking to work since you moved in with them.

“You sure you don’t want a ride?” she asks again. She always makes sure to ask twice, no matter how often you refuse; you think it’s her way of reminding you that she’s there for you if you ever need her.

“No, I’m good,” you answer, shoving your hands in your jacket pockets, hunching against the freezing wind that’s sprung up.

“I’m sure you _are,”_ your friend shoots back, giving you an exaggerated wink.

“That doesn’t even mean anything.” You scowl at her playfully.

“Doesn’t it?” Roxy shuts the door and starts her car as you laugh. She pulls away, headed north, and you pull your collar up and head south, toward your new home on Dolly Street.

A small sound like the scuff of a sneaker on pavement makes you glance up, startled, but in the darkness, you can’t spot anyone. You stand for a moment, listening, but the sound doesn’t repeat itself, and after a minute, you continue on your way, still cautious but by now fairly certain it had been an incongruous nighttime noise blown out of proportion by your expansive imagination.

Sans and Papyrus are watching TV when you come in the door. It’s a news channel, unusual for Papyrus, and it’s not normal behavior for Sans to watch TV at all, so you’re immediately concerned. You pace to the couch and Sans scoots over, making room so you can sit in the middle, between the brothers. The image on the screen is of a devastated storefront. The colorful sign hanging above the doorway reads, “Quaint ’n’ Quirky.” A woman stands in the foreground, likely one of its managers or possibly the owner.

“A bunch of ‘em just pushed the guy through the window,” the woman is saying, looking distressed. “Knocked over our window display and all. Poor guy was cut up bad, bleeding all over the place…”

“Although this isn’t the first gang-related activity we’ve seen,” an announcer comments as the scene changes, “…this is the most violent altercation we’ve experienced locally, and the first one that’s included property damage.”

“The gangs’ve been harassing each other on the street outside for several weeks,” the manager (owner?) continues. “We knew it was only a matter of time ‘till things got ugly.”

“that’s snowy,” Sans interjects grimly, identifying one of the gang members whose mug shots adorn the screen. From the way they’re divided, you can infer that one of the gangs under discussion was composed entirely of humans, and the other of monsters. The monster Sans points to is a birdlike creature with fluffy white plumage and, oddly, blunt teeth inside its beak. “he’s always been a troublemaker, but this guy…” Here Sans indicates one of the humans, the one that was pushed through the window. “… he could have been killed. it’s not like snowy to do something as wild as this.”

“The 19-year-old college student is still in intensive care after spending three hours in surgery," the announcer continues. "His family have declined to comment.”

“Where did this happen?” you ask, wondering at the circumstances. Though it seems two gangs were involved, and it even looks like both gangs were arrested, the news story makes it sound like one gang versus a single young man. It doesn’t seem right to you that the human gang wouldn’t fight back. Of course, making the wounded teenager into a persecuted underdog-type character will garner more ratings, but is that really what this is about?

You feel like you’re hearing half the story or less. What really happened out there?

_Look at the facts,_ you tell yourself. Two gangs. One wounded person. A broken window. The newscaster himself said this was the most violence they’ve seen, and the first property damage. That suggests to you that, before this, the most these two groups did was yell at each other, and possibly throw things. The most obvious answer to the question of what happened is a simple fistfight that went wrong. The severe injuries to the human teenager were likely an accident, especially considering Sans’s assertion that Snowy isn’t the type to try and kill someone. If that’s the case, why is the news station distorting the story? Why cut out the human gang’s role almost completely? And why turn the wounded teen into some kind of martyr? _19-year-old college student…_ As if _that’s_ what’s important. Of course you feel sorry for him, but it’s almost like the media is ignoring the fact that this guy’s in a gang.

This was clearly a group altercation.

So why is one group being focused on and the other being downplayed to the point where it’s barely mentioned?

“IT HAPPENED IN PALMYRA,” Papyrus says, responding to your absent-minded question. Palmyra? That’s only fifteen miles away. “SNOWY WOULDN’T DO THIS,” Papyrus continues. “HE IS A GOOD BOY! AND SO IS ICECAP! AND ICECAP IS ALSO A GOOD BOY, AND JERRY THOUGH NOBODY REALLY LIKES HIM, AND ALSO ICECAP! THEY ARE ALL GOOD CHILDREN! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?”

_Weird,_ you think to yourself. It’s the wrong time to take note of this, but… _They really ARE all named Icecap._

Sans’s hand is over his mouth, he’s hunched over in his seat, and his pupils are tiny pinpricks trained on the TV screen. He reminds you strongly of Rodin’s Thinker. “they’re not the best kids,” he answers his brother. His voice sounds far-away. “but you’re right. they wouldn’t do this on purpose.”

“I don’t like this,” you mutter. A news story like this one will likely damage the monster rights talks, and after so many setbacks already, you’re afraid this may prove insurmountable. But worse than that, the news controls common opinion. A report like this will cause fear and division. Now that the monsters have hurt someone, now that "monster gangs" have become a public threat, humans may feel it necessary to take things into their own hands.

“we need to keep our heads down for a while,” Sans says, low, turning to you and Papyrus with an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. “i’ll go check out the scene.” He motions to the TV, currently displaying choppy security camera footage of the monster gang members who apparently fled the scene. A video of the incident itself is blatantly absent. “maybe find the rest of the video,” the small skeleton continues, unconsciously echoing your thoughts.

Get the video? You narrow your eyes at Sans. That sounds illegal. “You just said we need to keep our heads down,” you accuse.

“if this doesn’t blow over, checkers, you’ll need to find a new place to stay,” Sans finishes shortly. Then he stands and heads for his bedroom, slouching with his hands in his pockets.

Papyrus is crying. His soft “NYOO HOO HOO” makes an aching counterpoint to the dark thoughts chasing themselves around in your head. You lean against the tall skeleton’s shoulder as the story begins to replay on the screen. Papyrus lays his head on top of yours. The night is full of the sound of breaking glass and approaching strife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**
> 
> … Not literally, though. There’s not, like, a mob approaching the house or anything. Figure of speech.


	15. Quaint 'n' Quirky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which good intentions aren't enough, and in which careful forethought is flummoxed by primitive technology.

_ Sans _

 

I check my pockets once more before I head out. A little cash, burner phone, pocket mirror, nice bright LED flashlight, taser, empty thumb drive, little pot of Vicks VapoRub. I won’t need much, and I don’t expect to have any trouble tonight. This’ll be a quick errand, in-and-out, no mess, no fuss. I’ve never been to the town, so I’ll need to get a ride partway. No, I’m NOT taking the convertible. It doesn’t exactly blend in, and worse, it’s easily identifiable. The last thing I wanna do is get Paps in trouble. Once I’m close to the scene, I’ll be able to ‘port in short hops until I get inside. If I can’t avoid or blind the security camera outside the store, then I plan to take it out, but since I don’t know if there are any inside, or where they are, I’ll have to keep my hood up and wear… the Thing.

The Thing is a little something I picked up last Halloween, as sort of a joke. It’s a kinda-creepy full-head mask with a wide, stitched-looking smile and big black eye sockets. Some cartoon skeleton character from an old movie, I think. Anyway, it got a few laughs that year, and then I stuck it in my sock drawer and haven’t taken it out since. There’s a permanent crease in it now. Oh well. I put the Thing on, pull my hood over it, and check myself out in the mirror. Pretty good. Not perfect, but it’ll do. I’m wearing a red and black hoodie, jeans, sneakers, and gloves tonight. The outfit covers me from head to foot, hiding my bones from view. If I _am_ caught on camera, I want to look like a human, and I don’t want to be seen wearing clothes folks’ll recognize.

Well, some monsters might recognize me anyway, but I doubt any humans will.

There’s a sudden knock at my door and I jump.

“Sans?”

I open the door for Checkers, who’s wringing her hands nervously on the other side. She gives me a disbelieving stare.

“Jack Skellington? Really?”

I shrug and pull the mask off, hood sliding to my shoulders in the same motion. “only mask i own.”

Checkers sits down on my bed. “I put Papyrus to bed. He’s really worried.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I cough a little and venture, “thanks for taking care of him. i’ll see him in the morning. maybe we can talk it out.”

“Sans…” Checkers wrings her hands again and hesitates. “Sans, are you sure this is important enough to maybe go to jail for?”

My soul flutters in my chest at the worry in her voice. I sit on the bed beside her. She leans against my side.

“it’s important,” I say simply, looking at my knees. “i won’t get caught.”

“Then… is there anything I can do to help?” I look over at Checkers in surprise. Her face is pale, but her mouth is set in a firm line and her eyes are fiercely determined.

I chuckle quietly, and before I’ve really thought about it, I lean over and place a soft kiss on her cheek. She startles and blinks at me, a blush spreading across her face. I can feel my own face burning as well. I surprised myself as much as I did her. Goddammit, Sans. I slouch back casually and force out the words, “nah, this is nothing. i’ll see you in the morning, promise.”

I meant it to be the end of the discussion, but Checkers is too smart to let it go at that.

“So you’re going to go get the security footage,” she says. “Won’t the police have it? Isn’t that too dangerous a place to break into?”

Heh. More questions. Knew it. I can’t stop myself from grinning as I reply, “security footage isn’t too useful as evidence, and there were a million witnesses to this. the case is so simple they don’t need it for court. the cops have to go through a bunch of red tape to get it, and the most they can use it for is to identify the kids that got away, when they’re probably known around the neighborhood anyway. so getting the footage requires a lot of effort for something that won’t be much use. my guess is the original is still in the store.”

“And what will we do with it when you get it?”

My soul warms in my chest when she says “we.” Man, Checkers is somethin’ else. “you don’t need to be a part of this,” I say a little coldly, hoping she’ll stay out of all this, stay safe. “’s not your problem.”

That was a mistake. Checkers’s eyes flash angrily and she grabs me by the shoulders and holds me there, as if she’s considering shaking me. Instead, she opts for gripping me firmly as she grates out, “It damn well _is_ my problem because it concerns my friends! Don’t ever say your problems aren’t mine!”

Wow.

I mean… just… wow.

“you’re amazing,” I mumble. She blushes. That’s when I realize I said it out loud. I backpedal frantically. “i mean, that’s sweet of you, checkers, it really is, but… uh…” I’m… shit. I’ve been staring into her eyes again. When will I learn to avoid that? My brain is a pile of mush now, and I’ve got no one to blame but myself. Goddammit.

“just gonna keep it for now,” I say, struggling to come back to myself so I can answer her question. I finish with Rule Number One. “never take action ’til all the facts are in.”

Checkers smiles at me finally, her grip on my shoulders loosening until she’s just holding onto the sleeves of my hoodie.

“And people call you lazy,” she says fondly, and pulls me into a hug. I relax into her, hugging her back. This outing really isn’t that big a deal, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I rest my jaw on her shoulder and lean into the hug gratefully. Checkers’s softness cradles me and her warmth relaxes my tension. I can feel her breath against the side of my skull. Her heartbeat feels a little fast against my ribcage. My soul warms in my chest. Then I realize Checkers and I are on my bed, late at night, alone, pressed together.

Suddenly the comforting hug between friends is creating a totally different kind of tension than the sort I’ve been dealing with all night. My soul goes from warm to hot and starts throbbing, pulsing in my chest like Checkers’s heartbeat, thundering against her ribs. It happened suddenly, I wasn’t expecting it, and so before I can get things under control, I find I’ve pressed closer to her, fingers tangled in her shirt, face buried in the side of her neck. Oh, god, she’s so soft, and so warm, and she smells so good. I can feel her pulse in her neck like a butterfly’s wingbeats, slightly rapid, matching the pace of her heart. I send mental signals to my fingers to let go of the back of her shirt, but instead of my hands releasing their grip, they start to shake. The tremors travel up my arms until my whole body is shivering.

“Sans…” Checkers’s voice is a breathy whisper. Hearing her say my name like that shakes me to the core, but it also brings me back to myself. I slide away from her. It causes me actual, physical pain to do it. For a moment, Checkers clings to me. Then she lets me go, arms falling away. I find myself backed up to the edge of my side of the bed, like a cornered animal.

“S-sorry,” she says, flushed brightly red, avoiding my eyes. _She’s_ sorry? I practically _molested_ her just now! Shit, shit, this thing is so out of control! I don’t want to…

I don’t… I want…

Checkers is meeting my eyes again, and I don’t know how to finish that thought. Then her eyes drift downwards.

“What’s that?” she asks, and points to my chest.

I glance down. A faint blue glow is shining through the fabric of my hoodie. Oh mother of all fuckers. I slap my hand over the glow of my soul and turn away from Checkers, curling around it. Now it’s my turn to gasp out, “s-sorry! sorry. just, uhh… j-just gimme a minute.”

Checkers cranes her neck to fuckin’ _look_ at it. Jeez, kid, can I get a little privacy? “What _is_ it?” she asks again.

Does she not… know this? I mean, obviously she doesn’t have a soulmate, but… Do humans not get… you know? _Where do baby humans come from?!_ Dammit, Sans, _stop thinking about this!_

“ask your mother,” I defer, voice a little strained. It’s the pat response every little monster gets when they first start asking those kinds of questions.

The air suddenly feels heavy. Something’s changed.

“I… don’t have one,” Checkers reminds me quietly.

Ohh, shit. Shit! Nononono… Any lingering arousal dies instantly as my hands come up, patting the air helplessly. “shit! shit, checkers, i’m sorry, i didn’t… it wasn’t…” God, how could I forget Checkers doesn't have a mom? I could see the pain in her when she first told me. Now I've hit her where it hurts and I didn't even think before I did it!

“It’s okay,” Checkers says, trying bravely to smile for me. I can see from the look on her face that something vital in her has closed itself off. “I don’t expect you to remember everything.”

Ohh, god, there she goes. Pulling away from me. Drawing back. The ship has left the harbor and here I am, waving my handkerchief from the dock like some fuckin’ left-behind loser.

“checkers, please, god, i didn’t mean it like that.” I’m panicking. I can feel tears prickling the insides of my eye sockets. I firmly dig the fingers of one hand into the carpals of the opposite wrist. The small pain grounds me, forces the tears back.

“I know you didn’t. Don’t worry about it,” she says, still smiling at me gently, still farther away than she’s been since we first met. It’s…

Ahh, shit…

It’s gone. Everything we’ve built up to now. Gone like it was never there.

Checkers reaches over to squeeze my shoulder. “Be careful, okay? Come back safely.” Then she stands up and walks out, quietly closing the door behind her.

I want to go after her, to beg, to cry.

To tell her I need her.

Shit, shit, shit.

I hurt her.

I deserve this pain.

 

_You_

 

You close your bedroom door behind you and slump against it, emotionally exhausted. Stress and worry and… yeah, and sexual tension, and then that sudden, unexpected pain, sharper than it should have been because it came from someone you were so close to, and you were feeling raw already.

You’ve come to trust him so much you forgot he could hurt you.

You know you need to sleep on it, that you’ll feel better in the morning… but…

Will Sans even _be_ here in the morning?

You collapse face-first onto your bed.

The pain you felt at his careless phrase startled you, caused you to pull back emotionally, and when you tried to make Sans understand that you forgive him, he hadn’t believed you.

Sans thinks you’re mad at him.

The dismay on his face was unbearable to look at, but everything you said after that only seemed to make him more upset. He... When you stopped trusting him with your emotions, he could tell. Of course he could. He’s so good at seeing right through you. You know it’s only temporary, only until you can recover from the pain, but…

He needed you to be open.

You couldn’t give him that.

You’re a terrible friend.

You groan into your pillow. You feel awful. How did things get so tangled? They were so simple a minute before, when he was holding you.

You shiver involuntarily and roll over, clutching your pillow to your chest now and staring at the ceiling. When Sans tightened his hold on you, pulling you closer, he’d made a small helpless sound, like a choked-off moan. The sound vibrated against the hollow of your neck and shoulder and pulled you closer in turn. For a moment, you’d lost yourself in him.

Then he’d drawn away. Not just that: he’d retreated as far from you as he could get.

You sigh. He’s always doing that. You’ve been coaxing him closer so patiently, trying so hard to get him to open up to you, and now you’ve messed it up. You want Sans to be open, but you closed yourself off so quickly at the first hint of danger.

What if you’ve done the sort of damage that can’t be repaired?

You squeeze your eyes closed, but you can’t stop a few stubborn tears from trickling from their corners.

You tried to bridge the gap between you and Sans and it didn’t work. You don’t know what else you can do right now.

…

But you can’t let Sans go out tonight thinking he’s lost you.

You sit up suddenly, dropping the pillow onto the floor, and run out your door and up the stairs. You burst into Sans’s bedroom, not sure what you’re going to say. But, regardless, it’s a moot point.

He’s gone.

 

_ Sans _

 

Quaint ’n’ Quirky? Oookay, I’dve picked a different name for my business, but whatever floats their boat.

The brightly-colored sign of the hobby shop is faded to deep gray and black in the near-darkness of 3 a.m. in a small town. The closest security light is over a block away, and despite my excellent night vision, I have to place my feet carefully so I don’t fall in a pothole.

In the wake of my disastrous mistake, I had to flee the house. I groan to myself, rubbing my face with a hand. I didn’t know what I was saying: I was too caught up in trying to dodge Checkers. I know I shut people out. I know it. This time I did it so hard I caused some real hurt to happen. Checkers has been nothing but amazing to me, and I repay her by pushing her away. Just like always.

I left early ‘cause I figured Checkers might come back in a few, wanting to talk about what happened. My leaving was another way of keeping her at arm’s length, wasn’t it? Shit. I want to stop this. I want to let her in. I just… it’s scary, okay? I’m not sure I know how to trust her like that. Not sure I know how to trust _anyone._ Shit, shit, shit.

If she doesn’t want anything to do with me after this, I can’t blame her for it. Don’t know what I’m gonna say to her in the morning. Maybe I’ll just live in my room from now on. Paps can shove hotdogs under the door for me.

I didn’t have to hot-wire a car. I had all this extra time on my hands, so I just walked.

Don’t look at me like that. I’d’ve put it back when I was done with it.

I can’t see inside the store from outside it; I’ll have to walk in the old-fashioned way. Everything’s been wrapped up for the night, so the place is deserted. Police tape surrounds the scene. As if that ever stopped anybody.

I could choose to ignore the security camera and rely on my disguise, or I could destroy it, but one of those options will give away my height (or lack thereof) and the other might give away my magic. Besides, it’d cost the store owner money. She’s had a rough day. Don’t wanna add to that. So I take out my flashlight and train it on the camera’s lens. Good thing everyone’s gone home for the night; otherwise the light would give me away. I keep the light between the camera and myself as I stride to the broken window. The glare should prevent it from getting a look at me.

At the window, I’m out of the camera’s field of vision, and I’m also able to pick out vague details inside the store. I make out a black smudge against the ceiling behind the counter: another camera. I take some time to let my eyes adjust a little. This one can’t see me yet. It’s pointing down at an angle, giving a good view of the cashier and any customers close to the register. I scan the rest of the small store but that’s the only other camera I see. There might still be one or two in the corners nearest me, so I pull out the little make-up mirror and hold it through the shattered display window, tilting it at an angle so I can see the top of the wall. No good. Too dark. I grumble to myself: in this situation, speed should be my best friend, and instead here I am trying to make everything perfect. Hope nobody comes along on a late-night jog. I hold the flashlight out into the store as well. I click it on and, between it and the mirror, manage to spot a third camera in one of the near corners.

Aah, son of a bitch. Those two cameras together provide a pretty comprehensive view of Quaint ’n’ Quirky. If I ‘port behind the counter cam, into its rearward blind spot, the corner cam’ll see me, and since it takes a minute to get the flashlight oriented, it’ll almost certainly get a good shot of my shorty ass before I can blind it. I want to keep the ‘porting to a minimum, anyway; it could give someone the strange idea that magic, and therefore a monster, was involved in this little escapade. I slide carefully through the broken window, grateful for my head-to-toe coverage: there’s broken glass everywhere and I’d almost certainly slice my hands up if I wasn’t wearing gloves. I’m pretty close to the corner cam’s field of vision, so I can’t be sure whether it sees me or not. Hope not, but, well, that’s why I’m wearing the Thing. I slide along the wall into the corner directly under the corner-mounted camera, and with a light surge of magic I twist the gravity around myself and crawl up the wall. I take out the Vicks VapoRub, a vaseline-like thing with eucalyptus oil ’n’ shit in it, for coughs and stuff. I keep it around for Paps. When he’s got a cold, he says it makes him feel better. Anyway, I scoop out a glob of the Vicks and slather it on the camera lens. Then I reorient gravity and drop to the floor. From here, I can blind the counter cam with the flashlight, no problem.

The manager’s office isn’t even locked. The monitor system is on a small desk against one of the walls, surrounded by several tall stacks of VHS tapes.

VHS tapes.

I pull the bulky black box with the right date and time off the top of one of the piles and look at it sourly.

Goddammit, Quaint ’n’ Quirky.

There’s _no way_ this’ll fit in the X-Box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**  
> 
> 
> It doesn’t matter how kind you are, or how good you try to be. If someone loves you, you’re going to hurt them sometimes. True love may be the start of a relationship, but it’s not what makes it last. The number of divorces between people who still love each other is proof enough of that. The relationships that last a lifetime (yes, I’ve known several of these!) have foundations made of humility and flexibility. Humility, to help the people involved admit when they’re in the wrong and take the necessary steps to correct themselves, and flexibility to help them accept and forgive their other half’s failings.
> 
> I’m not very comfortable with my ability to write action-type stuff (not that there was any actual action involved). Hope it turned out okay. Oh, and DO NOT use anything I’ve said here to break the law. Shame on you if you considered it.
> 
> I still have my ancient VHS player. Can’t bring myself to throw the old girl away.


	16. Still Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which comfort food builds bridges, and a plan of inaction is proposed.

_You_

True to your expectations, the hurt you felt last night at Sans’s careless remark has faded with the approach of morning. In that way, you feel much better, and you’re ready to trust your friend with your feelings again. In other ways, though, anxiety is clawing at your chest, trying to dig its way out from the inside.

You didn’t get much sleep last night; you were too worried about Sans, and you woke to every little noise, hoping to catch the sound of him coming home. Finally, you were awakened shortly after sunrise by a familiar knocking upstairs, and a muffled mumble. This was the noise of Papyrus checking on Sans, as per morning routine. The mumble was the small skeleton’s answer. Finally, you were able to breathe again.

But now that the immediate worry regarding risk of life and limb has been allayed, a different concern is troubling you.

You feel like you and Sans had a fight. Even though you both blamed yourselves and no yelling was involved, you can tell this is the sort of thing that might hang over your heads for a while if you don’t do something.

Somehow, you need to clear the air.

You lie in bed, hugging your pillow and staring at the ceiling. You could try to talk it out, but talking doesn’t seem like a good-enough solution. Sans is spooked, emotionally-speaking. He’s obviously not secure in your friendship yet if he thinks hurting your feelings will stop you from being his friend. You want to reassure him, but if he’s still upset, he’ll probably try to avoid you. That seems to be his modus operandi.

You lift your hand to chew at a nail.

You can’t convince Sans it’s okay by talking, but maybe you can do something for him. No, _with_ him. Something nice and comforting that you can do together, something casual so as not to alarm him or make him feel pressured…

Your late Grandma once told you food is a balm for the soul.

And Sans has been out all night. He’s bound to be hungry.

You leap out of bed and run to the kitchen to catch Papyrus before he starts breakfast.

* * * * *

The sizzle of the skillet makes you feel like the master of the kitchen as you stir the concoction with a spatula. The smell of greasy fried food is an olfactory symphony, and you are the conductor. Bacon, smoked sausage, onions, tomatoes, green peppers, cheddar cheese, and pretty much anything else you could find went into this hash brown scramble. Papyrus is sitting at the kitchen table, playing happily with a Rubik’s cube. You keep glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. Papyrus may come off as a little slow to some people, but he’s making really good progress on that thing. It’s already looking more together than it ever has under your spatially-retarded fingers.

He’s accustomed to being the chef of the household, and at first, he kept asking you if you’d like help. You declined, but he continued to follow you closely, watching over your shoulder. When you ran into his chest for the third time on your circuit around the kitchen, you went to get him the puzzle cube in the hopes that something to fiddle with would help him settle down. It’s worked marvelously well so far, and you’ve just about got breakfast ready, so you turn and say over your shoulder, “Papyrus, could you get your brother up? I’d like us all to have breakfast together.”

“RIGHT AWAY, SISTER!” he shouts excitedly, and drops the cube in his hurry to spring into action. You chuckle as you scrape the last of the scramble onto a serving platter. Papyrus is so sweet you should probably get some dental insurance. Prolonged exposure to him could give you cavities.

After a moment, the tall skeleton’s voice drifts down the stairs. “YES YOU WILL!” he shouts. “I DO NOT CARE HOW LATE YOU WERE UP!” Your heart sinks and you start to doubt that your breakfast idea was a good one after all. Of course Sans wants to sleep in! What were you thinking? A nice dinner would have been much better! You have a sudden impulse to smack yourself in the forehead with your spatula as Papyrus continues, “BECAUSE (Y/N) HAS MADE BREAKFAST THIS MORNING AND WE MUST ALL EAT IT TOGETHER! YOU MUST EAT HER BREAKFAST, BROTHER, OR YOU WILL HURT HER FEELINGS! SHE WILL THINK YOU HATE HER! SHE WILL THINK IT TASTES BAD! OR SMELLS BAD! NO MATTER HOW UNPLEASANT HER UNHEALTHY GREASY BREAKFAST IS, WE MUST EAT IT FOR THE SAKE OF FRIENDSHIP!” You’ve gone from smile to grimace to scowl in a matter of minutes. Also, now you’re inclined to smack Papyrus.

The sound of a door shutting upstairs interrupts your persistent self-recriminations. A few moments later, Sans shuffles in, rubbing his eye sockets like a tired child. Papyrus is right behind him, giving him gentle nudges in the right direction. You walk over to him with a steaming mug of coffee and press it into his hand. Sans looks slowly at the cup, and then raises his eyes to you.

His eye lights go out.

“hey,” he mumbles, and takes a sip of coffee.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” you say, struggling with your distressed reaction to _his_ distress. “Long night, huh?”

“mmm,” Sans affirms, and takes another sip. He’s still not awake enough to converse; breakfast was a horrible idea. Papyrus pushes his brother to a chair and you pull it out for him. The two of you are developing a bit of a morning routine where Sans is concerned. Sans plops into the chair, lays his coffee on the table and his head on his arms, and seemingly goes back to sleep. Something deep inside you curses. Something else says, “Aww, so cute!”

Papyrus kicks his brother’s chair leg. Sans jolts up, startled, there’s a flash of blue, and out of nowhere, something bright white fires through the air and spears the wall, leaving a small, smoking hole. You squeak and clap your hands to your mouth, shocked and a little frightened. If whatever that was had gone towards you or Papyrus instead of in an unoccupied direction… _Ok, lesson learned,_ you think to yourself. _Do NOT startle Sans._

“AWG!” Papyrus yells, slapping his hands to his skull in dismay. “THAT IS THE THIRD TIME THIS MONTH!”

“sorry, bro,” Sans says, rubbing the back of his skull sheepishly. At least he’s finally fully-awake. “guess you’ve got a bone to pick with me now.”

“SANS, OH MY GOD, WHY?”

You chuckle. For some reason, Papyrus’s reactions to Sans’s puns are funnier than the puns themselves. “What was that?” you ask, laying a plate of hash brown scramble in front of Sans. Your heart is still beating pretty fast. You hope you don’t look as scared as you felt.

“what’s this?” he replies (or fails to), looking at his plate with interest.

“Hash brown scramble,” you tell him cheerfully. “It’s greasy and unhealthy,” here you shoot Papyrus a sour look, which he ignores, “And perfect after a long night. You know what the best part is?”

“what?”

You smugly thump a full bottle of Heinz down in front of the small skeleton. “It’s _great_ with ketchup.”

Sans’s eyes light up and he gives you a grin. “aww, checkers, you shouldn’t have.” With that, he pops the cap and squirts an absolutely obscene amount of ketchup over his plate. He takes a bite, and his eyes roll back in his head in ecstasy. “oh my god.”

“What’d I tell you?” you say happily, taking a bite of your own significantly-less-ketchup-y scramble.

“i adore you,” Sans says with a full mouth. You fumble your fork and it falls to your plate with a clink. Sans looks at you in surprise, and then slowly, as if he’s just starting to realize the implications of your reaction, he smirks.

_Oh my god, did he just FLIRT with me? Or is it really just about the breakfast?_ You try to recover. “Aww, I love you, too, sweetie.” Sans freezes, eyes wide, and a blush creeps over his cheeks. “Otherwise I’d throw you out the window,” you finish, smirking back at him. Your friend clears his throat, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. Now he’s the one struggling to act normal. _He can dish it out, but… oh man, I HAVE to use that!_

“Can’t take what you dish out?” you ask sweetly, and take another bite for emphasis. You show a lot of teeth when you do it. Sans starts to sweat, and his reaction to your pun is delayed. After a moment, the joke seems to register, and he guffaws.

Papyrus makes a disgusted noise. “SANS, YOU ARE CORRUPTING OUR SISTER. YOU MUST DESIST YOUR AWFUL PUNNERY FORTHWITH!” The two of you laugh harder at this.

“really, though, checkers,” Sans starts, finally catching his breath. “this is really great. thanks.” You smile at him warmly and open your mouth to respond.

“YES, THIS BREAKFAST IS VERY GOOD INDEED,” Papyrus interrupts loudly. “ESPECIALLY FOR SOMETHING SO GREASY. BROTHER, TO ENSURE A CONTINUED SUPPLY OF THESE GREASETATERS, YOU MUST MARRY (Y/N) SOON.”

Sans and you both choke at this. You share a communal coughing fit. Sans recovers first and starts to object. “paps…”

“YES YOU WILL!” Papyrus cuts him off firmly. “THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS NEVER WRONG ABOUT THESE THINGS! AND THEN SHE WILL BE MY SISTER IN FULL TRUTH!” he adds gleefully, clapping in joy.

Sans buries his face in his hands. “paps, oh my god.” You start laughing. Sans looks at you incredulously.

“Sorry, sorry,” you gasp, waving your hand. “He’s just so sure of it.”

“OF COURSE I AM SURE OF IT! YOU DOUBT THE GREAT PAPYRUS?”

You’re uncertain how to answer that one. A _yes_ will hurt Papyrus’s feelings, but a _no_ might clue Sans in to your crush on him. If it _is_ a real crush, and not just some crazy… thing. You’re still struggling with that question.

“i doubt anyone would consider marriage without even dating the person first,” Sans responds diplomatically.

“AH, YES, THIS IS TRUE. I HAD NOT THOUGHT OF THAT.” The gangly skeleton taps his finger on his chin thoughtfully. “WHERE WOULD THE TWO OF YOU LIKE TO GO ON YOUR DATE?”

Sans spews coffee across the table. You can’t help it; you’re laughing again. Sans is coughing and blushing hard, and as the (currently) less flustered of the two of you, you decide it’s time to intervene.

“About last night,” you topic-hop. Sans looks up at you, tensing. “Did you get what you went out for?” You don’t think you want to bring up the “fight” yet, if at all. Maybe it would be best to let the whole thing go and hope Sans draws the right conclusions from your “happy family breakfast” plan.

“oh. yeah, i got it. there’s a little problem, though.”

“What’s that?”

“it’s on vhs.”

“Uh… huh.” You prop your chin on your hand, thinking. “I guess you guys don’t have access to a VHS player?”

“not anymore. there were several in the underground, but…” You look at Sans hopefully. His eyes widen in alarm, pupils shrinking. “y… uh… they’re prob’ly still there, but… i don’t… i think, uh…”

“Sans, what’s wrong?” He looks really stressed all of a sudden. You’re starting to feel concerned.

Sans dips his head and mumbles, so quietly you can barely hear him, “i really don’t wanna go back there.”

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Okay.” Sans looks up at you, a little surprised that you accepted his not-quite-refusal so quickly. You think a little more, and continue, “Roxy’s family might have one. I know I’ve seen a stash of VHSs in among their DVDs.”

Sans looks hopeful. “cool. are you off work today? wanna head over there after breakfast?”

You hesitate, a little surprised. “Are… are you going to let me watch it with you?” It sounds like he’s including you in his plans.

“yeaaaah,” the small skeleton says, a little awkwardly. “i… uh… i’m…” You wait patiently. “s-sorry for, y’know, for shutting you out all the time. if this matters to you, you have the right to decide you wanna be involved.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. You push your chair back and head around the table to Sans’s side. Then you lean over and kiss him on the top of his skull. “Thanks,” you whisper into his earhole, watching delightedly as pink sweeps over his features. Then you happen to glance up.

Papyrus is watching the two of you joyfully, hands clasped to either side of his face, eyes wide and sparkling.

You…

You forgot he was there.

You’re now blushing as much as Sans is.

“OH, SIBLINGS!” he gushes.

“paps, eat your food,” Sans says, rubbing his face as if he might wipe off the red of his blush. He glances at you. You give him a small, embarrassed smile. He echoes it.

* * * * *

Papyrus heads to work after breakfast; he has a small job at a pet shop which doesn’t pay much, but which he’s extremely enthusiastic about. You stay in the kitchen to wash the dishes. Sans comes and leans against the counter next to you.

“You hurt me,” you tell him.

“i know,” he says miserably.

“I’m still here.”

Sans blinks at you. “yeah. you are.”

You turn to face him, wiping your hands dry on a dishtowel. You sling the towel over your shoulder and take Sans’s hands in yours. You look at him frankly. “What we have is stronger than that.” Sans stares into your eyes. He has no throat, but somehow he manages to give the impression of swallowing hard. “Do you think you could try to trust in our friendship more from now on? Even just a little?”

Sans nods. “i’ll try. checkers… it’s hard for me to… well. you know. lots of things are hard.”

You pull him into a hug. He sighs, and relaxes, and then he hugs you back.

* * * * *

Roxy is scheduled to work today, but you’ve known her family since you were in elementary school and they’re used to you coming over without giving them advance warning. Sans ‘ports you there after breakfast. Like last time, you end up clinging to him for dear life, arms around his neck, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Still, you’re starting to enjoy the ride a bit, despite the adrenaline rush. Or maybe because of it. And you can’t pretend to yourself you don’t like the moment at the end of it, either, where you discover yourself so thoroughly pressed to Sans it’s like you’re trying to crawl into him. Whatever it is you’ve got for him, you’ve got it bad.

Grandma Marge is sitting at the kitchen table, in the same seat she was last time, sipping coffee and reading a theology book. It’s how she spends most of her days. You’re struck by the odd idea that she never leaves the table.

“Hey, honeychild! Heya, monster-man!” she calls cheerfully.

You give her a little wave. Sans says, “‘sup?”

“Oh, not much, just finishin’ my coffee,” Grandma replies. “You see the news? Gang activity in Palmyra? Kids these days. Don’t know how to have a proper fight.” She closes her book and lays it on the table. _Hostile Witnesses_ by Gary Michuta. She’s always reading some odd religious thing.

You snort. Sans chuckles. “I think the best fight is the one you _don’t_ have,” you contribute. Marge has always appreciated a bit of contradiction to add spice to her day.

“Oh, psh,” she says, waving her hand as if brushing away a fly. “Not a fight. Doesn’t count.” Sans laughs, apparently delighted that Marge took a logical route rather than the more natural opinion-based one. You smile, not just in response to Grandma, but at the fact that she and Sans get along so well. You’d been particularly worried about that the first time they met: Marge can be quite caustic and opinionated, and she’s been known to use racial slurs in an offhand manner, as if she thinks they don’t matter. The way she keeps calling Sans “monster” isn’t promising, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“So siddown, children, ’n’ tell me what brings you out here.”

“it can’t be the pleasure of your company?” Sans says mischievously, surprising you. Marge cackles and slaps her thigh.

“My company’s about as pleasurable as huggin’ a cactus. So what really brings you out here?”

“We’ve got a VHS we want to take a look at. Do you have a VHS player?”

“Oh, yeah, we’ve got a couple ‘o those,” Grandma responds. “You can use the one in Dave’s room.” Dave is the youngest of Roxy’s siblings. It surprises you that a twelve-year-old would have a VHS player. “Lemme get y’all some coffee first and then we can go have a look at your thing.”

You jump to your feet. “Gram, we can get our own coffee,” you object.

“i take mine black,” Sans says lazily from his seat. You kick his chair leg. He snickers.

Marge laughs, too, and hefts herself to her feet, waving you back to your chair. “Siddown, honeychild, and let Grandma spoil you.”

“Aw, Gram,” you protest weakly.

“Awe is for god. Do as I say, girl.”

“not as you do?” For some reason, Sans seems to really enjoy needling Grandma Marge.

“Ehehehehe! (Y/N), hang onto this one! He’s a keeper!”

“Oh, Gram, we’re not…”

“she’s not my…”

“He’s just a…”

“…friends…?” You and Sans look at each other, discombobulated, as Grandma Marge laughs uproariously.

* * * * *

Later, crammed together in Dave’s cluttered little room, the three of you watch the security footage of “the incident,” as it’s being called. Sans decided Grandma Marge also had a right to watch the video, as she’s the one who’s allowing you both to use the VHS player… though his decision may have been based more on the fact that the look she gave him when he suggested she stay out of it could’ve caused him to spontaneously combust if she stared at him long enough.

It takes Sans a while to find the right spot on the tape, which allows you to look around Dave’s room a bit. You’ve never been in here before: Dave likes his privacy. He’s also, apparently, an electronics enthusiast. Not only is there a wide range of electronic items scattered around his room, including the promised VHS player, but bits and pieces of them sit among tiny tools on his large computer desk and lie in disorganized heaps in boxes and on shelves. There’s even an AVI cable hanging over his closet door knob. Sans was clearly interested and, for a moment, he seemed to forget why you’d come. He was quick enough to hook up the player and pop in the tape when you reminded him, but once again you were struck by the unusually animated look in his eyes as he scanned all these objects of interest.

Grandma’s face is set in a sour frown by the end of the first viewing. Sans rewinds the security footage and you all watch it for a second time. As you’d originally suspected, the injuries to the human were an accident. On the tape, the two groups surge together into a punching, kicking mess, the teenaged human reels out of the crowd, disoriented, and then a monster pops out backwards, pushed by someone else, falls against the back of the human as the crowd surges sideways, adding their own momentum, and the boy tumbles headfirst through the store window.

The action on-screen stops as everyone realizes what’s happened, and the kids all scatter, vanishing in seconds.

Sans pauses the video.

Grandma curses. “Goddamned news stations, always tryin’ to tell us what to think.”

“What are we going to do?” you ask quietly.

“nothing for now,” Sans replies, ejecting the tape. “gotta make sure the kids that got arrested aren’t punished for attempted murder or whatever. if that can be done without revealing what we’ve got here, we’re gonna keep it to ourselves. so no talking about it, okay?”

“Sans, _why?”_ you ask, dismayed. “People need to know the monsters weren’t the bad guys!”

“everybody’s a bad guy in this situation,” Sans responds, looking distant, tapping the tape absently against one of his palms. “for now we need to keep it secret that we know what really happened.”

“You broke into the place and stole that tape,” you point out flatly. “It’ll be obvious _somebody_ knows what really happened.”

Sans shrugs. “less obvious if i copy the tape and go drop the original in the office behind the filing cabinet. once they find it, they’ll probably assume it just got lost, and the break-in was just some kid wanting a closer look at their boring town’s cool crime scene.” His voice remains low as he continues, “if the news stations have an agenda, someone’s behind it. and we’re riding their asses right now. we don’t wanna give anyone the idea that we’re holding evidence that contradicts the official spin. we don’t know our enemy, we don’t know their goal, we don’t know the situation. as soon as we tip our hand, they’ll start blocking us. the first evidence we use against ‘em will be the last evidence we use against ‘em. gotta make sure, when we bring our guns to bear, that we know where to aim, and that we have enough ammo to blow them away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~ Author’s Note ~**
> 
> Sans: Master of Neutral Jing.
> 
> If you notice my writing changing from two spaces to one after a period (.) and back again, it’s ‘cause my computer at work is a Windows thing that autocorrects a double-space to a single. My laptop is a Mac, which doesn’t. I double-space after periods because I’m a classically-trained typist and we used to do that, but in the past ten years or so it’s become obsolete and most style manuals now will tell you to use one space, not two. This makes typesetters’ jobs much easier, and typists’ jobs easier as well if they haven’t picked up the two-space habit yet, but I type by instinct more than anything else and by the time I notice I’ve double-spaced I’m several letters beyond the end of the last sentence. It’s just been a pain in the ass, so I’ve stopped trying.
> 
> I love Grandma Marge so, so much. =^^= One of the things I’d like to do in this story, just a little bit, is use her casual but non-malicious racial insensitivity as a contrast to real racism.


	17. Worth It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which realizations are made and decisions reached, but not without concession to necessary sacrifices.

_ Sans _

Tori’s invited us all to her place for New Year’s Eve. New Year, huh? Again. I’m having a hard time processing it. This’ll be the second New Year I’ve rung in since the last reset. It feels surreal. I’m pretty sure after midnight I’ll have the overwhelming urge to keep asking people what year it is. Hope I don’t give in to it; don’t need another thing added to my friends’ “weird Sans shit” list. Checkers has already noticed that I obsessively check the calendar. She’s threatened to get me a watch that shows the date. I kinda like the idea. But, shit, what if it stops? Damn thing’d give me a heart attack.

Tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve. I feel kinda jittery about it.

The kids that were arrested after that boy got hurt have all been released back to their families. From what I heard, the cops had the right idea about the situation even if the news stations didn’t. Snowy told me he got the sternest talking-to of his life and was threatened with jail time if he got into any more fights.

That oughta keep him out of trouble for about a week.

Speaking of trouble with the law, Checkers has actually written on her new calendar, “report Rob to police” on January 2nd. I asked her about it and it turns out he’s been harassing her since before Christmas. He sent her a text tonight that made her drop her phone and kick it across the room. I think the kick might have been accidental. I went to pick it up for her, but she shouted “no!” a bunch of times and grabbed it away from me. I asked her what it was, and she stammered out that he’d sent her pictures of his wang. I tried to let my outrage show on my face while keeping all the inquisitiveness off it: I can guess what she meant, more or less, and it pisses me off. More than that, I’m getting a real bad feeling about this whole Rob situation. I’d like to do something about it, but I figure at a time like this it’s best to leave things to the human authorities. Still, from now on, I’m walking her home.

At the same time, this whole thing brought up the question again: where do baby humans come from? So here I am, kitchen table, middle of the night, laptop open in front of me, deciding to finally answer that.

The first thing I do is Google “wang.”

I get a computer company, some fashion thing, and a bunch of asian humans’ contact info.

“Human reproduction” gives me some technical stuff that’s easy enough to understand, but without pictures it’s kinda hard to imagine. It sorta sounds boring and clinical. It can’t really be like that, right?

So I click on “images.”

Oh goddammit.

I don’t have one of those.

Suddenly I wish I hadn’t bothered. Couldn’t I have, you know, waited a while? Just a couple more days of hoping that maybe, _maybe_ we’d be compatible? Despite the obvious differences, humans are pretty close to skeletons in terms of looks. There are a lot of different types of monsters, and physically, they’ve all got different ways of… well, you know. But all of us can soulbond, and I may’ve been sorta hoping… Shit. I know it’s way too early to be thinking about that sort of thing, but every time I look at her lately, my soul does a jig in my ribcage, and there’s only so much of this I can take before fantasies happen. She didn’t seem to recognize the glow of my soul when I fuckin’ shone in front of her like a horny teenager, but I guess I told myself maybe she was just sheltered or something? Aah, I dunno.

At least she doesn’t lay eggs. We can bond over the fact that neither of us lay fuckin’ eggs.

I bang my head on the table, quietly, so as not to wake Checkers and Paps. It hurts a little, and somehow suddenly reminds me that I’ve gotten waaaay ahead of myself here. Shit, Checkers is _just a friend._

I JUST LOOKED UP INFO ON HOW TO HAVE SEX WITH MY FRIEND.

Shit, fuck, this whole thing is so messed up! I slam the computer closed, furious with myself. For a second, I hope I broke it. Then I remind myself I love it, and give it a little apologetic pat.

Sick with guilt and secret shameful heartbreak, I sit there brooding for the better part of half an hour. I could make a pun about brooding and eggs, but my heart’s just not in it.

At least this pretty much guarantees she won’t get stuck in a relationship with me. She deserves so much better.

I heave a heavy sigh and sink into the table, laying my head on my arms.

Nobody deserves something like me. My life’s been hanging suspended ever since the twenty-third reset. Up ‘till then, I was still keeping track of ‘em. What was different about that one? Nothing. Nothing was different. It was exactly the same as the fourth run-through, and the sixth, and the twelfth, etc., complete with that breathtaking sunset. Everyone was happy to be free, excited to start their new lives aboveground. I’m a little out-of-step with the timelines, myself, and it’s been enough to give me an outside perspective, enough to keep my memories from getting reset along with everything else. Enough to maladjust the hell outta me.

I was so sick and tired of reliving the same shit over and over. Yeah, each run-through’s a little different, sometimes the kid’s a sweetheart and sometimes she’s a killer, and so am I now, and I never know which it’s going to be but really they’re all the same days with different packaging. God, please don’t do it to me again. Please let tomorrow come.

By Number Twenty-Three I was kind of a nutjob, already jumpy, suspicious and chronically unhappy under my Good Ol’ Sans façade. I was approaching a realization of the inevitable but I was doing it backwards, putting up defenses against it while wave after wave of inevitability hit, smashing me, drowning me, crushing me under its weight. So many sunsets, all of them the same, all of them so full of happiness and hope for the future. So many empty promises.

I stared at that beautiful sunset, and I was numb. I realized that without even thinking about it I was waiting for the reset. I went through the motions anyway, smiling, celebrating with everyone, and as Papyrus and I stepped out of the woods at the base of the mountain, a soft, warm breeze hit my face, and despite everything I felt the tiniest tingle of hope.

I encouraged it like a motherfucker. It was the first not-unhappy thing I’d felt in a while, and I really didn’t like the person I was becoming. I told myself I was taking my first step into a new tomorrow, like that could erase all the damage that had already been done, like I could be the old me again.

Then things reset.

This time through I killed myself.

Don’t… don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t thinking straight. And, no, I don’t remember anything after dying. I actually don’t remember much _about_ dying, either. The whole thing is pretty fuzzy. What I remember is seeing Papyrus again afterwards, after the next reset, presumably. Took one look at his goofy smiling face and imagined what it must’ve looked like when… y’know, I don’t wanna talk about this. I mean, I _know_ what it feels like to lose a brother. I _know_ that, and I still… Shit. Not that he remembers what I did to him, of course. But knowing how much I must’ve hurt him… it haunts me to this day. After that I was able to pull myself together a little. If you can pull yourself together by dying inside.

I stopped counting resets after that.

It’s been so long since the last reset. So much longer than it’s ever been. This is the part where I’m supposed to start recovering from all the Bad Shit.

But like I said, my life’s still hanging suspended. At this point, I just don’t know how to live anymore. I haven’t lived my life in, oh god, I don’t even know how long it’s been. I stopped fucking counting.

Checkers can’t be with me. She deserves somebody who’s all there. She deserves so much more than a mess like me.

Dammit, there’s the loop. Now I’m back where I started. I know where this shit goes and I can’t fuckin’ stop it. It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion, and I’m _riding_ the son of a bitch.

I should probably go to bed.

But it’s not like I’ll be able to get to sleep.

Need to take my mind off things.

Too depressed to walk, I ‘port to my room and turn to my bookshelf. I reach out to it, but pause as I remember there’s one thing I have to do before I settle in for the night, whether I’m going to sleep or not. One very important thing.

I drag myself to the calendar on my wall and use the marker hanging on a string next to it to cross today off (or yesterday, really). _Almost forgot, asshole. That could have been a disaster._

I rake a bunch of books off the shelf into my arms. Then I ‘port back down to the kitchen with them, set them on the table, and get myself a Coke and some lemon juice. I briefly consider spiking it with whisky, but I brush the thought away. I’ve been down that road. There’s no happy ending there.

I sigh and peruse the random pile of books I grabbed. Hello, old friends. Help me forget that the world exists.

* * * * *

Stupid useless books.

Slumped as far into the table as I can get, chin resting on my crossed arms, I listlessly push _So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish_ off the edge of the table. It makes a fwappy noise as it lands on top of the small pile of books on the floor and slides down the slope to a comfortable resting place. I keep telling myself I need to go to my room before someone gets up and finds me in this pathetic state, but I can’t seem to muster the will to get out of my chair.

C’mon, Sans, get up. Paps’ll try to shake it out of you. Don’t want that, do ya?

Don’t care.

Yes you do. Get up. You’ll thank me for this later.

One more time, I try to push myself away from the table. I get as far as lifting my head a little. Then I sigh and lay it back down.

Everything aches. Even my toes. Aah, the joys of being depressed. I turn to a random spot in the next book and start reading.

…

………

Nope, _Mathematical Methods in Quantum Mechanics with Applications to Schrödinger Operators_ isn’t helping, either. I can’t focus on anything right now. Even _1001 Knock Knock Jokes_ has lost its sparkle. I slowly nudge _Mathematical Methods_ off the table. It’s a little bigger than _So Long_ and makes a correspondingly larger _fwap._

A door shuts. Footsteps approach the kitchen. Panic courses through me, carrying self-consciousness with it. For a second, I think I’ll be able to ‘port away before Checkers gets here. Then I fail to lift my head again. Well, shit.

And then there she is, radiant in the light of the year’s final morning. She’s dressed in a rumpled, baggy t-shirt and flannel pajama pants and her hair is a mussy halo around her head. My soul clenches so hard little pains shoot down my limbs. How is she so beautiful?

She cocks her head and looks at me curiously. “What are you doing?”

“throwing a tantrum,” I grumble dejectedly, sliding another book solemnly to the edge of the table and then pushing it off with a finger. Boom. Wangless Wonder strikes again. Checkers cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Want to talk about it?” Her voice is gentle, and doesn’t really match her wry expression. She moves across the kitchen and starts making coffee.

God, no. What a thought. All I need to finish off my sundae of despair is a cherry of humiliation on top of it.

“nope.” I nudge my Coke cup off the edge of the table. It hits the ground with the satisfying clatter of scattering ice cubes. Checkers gives me a frank look.

“Guess who’s cleaning that up?”

Heh. Maybe it’s weird, but her attitude cheers me up just a little. “does her name start with checkers?”

“The name starts with Checkers and ends with Is Not Going to Do It.”

She opens the silverware drawer and scoops a handful of spoons out. She drops them on the table in front of me in a pile. “There, use those.” I guess she’s trying to minimize my destructive potential; floor-dwelling spoons can’t cause the kind of trouble floor-dwelling ice cubes can. “Just put them in the dishwasher when you’re done with them,” she throws over her shoulder as she turns towards the doorway. Discouragement stomps all over me. She might have stuck around a little, maybe tried to cheer me up. I sigh and sink into my arms again, annoyed with myself. I know she’s gotta work today, so she doesn’t have much time to hang around this morning. And, y’know, she’s smart enough to see I’m not the best company right now.

I watch her as she leaves the room. Of course I do. My eyes always seem to follow her these days, of their own accord and completely without my consent. My gaze starts at her back but inevitably drifts downwards before she shuts the door backside her. I mean behind her.

I bend a spoon in half with my thumb and drop it on the floor. Then I bite the edge of the table hard enough to make my teeth ache.

Not that it does me any fuckin’ good.

I hear Paps’s door bang open at the same time the bathroom door closes. Checkers has this morning bathroom ritual that’s so much longer than Paps’s and mine. We brush our teeth and shower and stuff, but whatever it is _she_ does in there takes actual time and effort. Maybe she’s dealing with her hair. I understand hair requires the kind of care and feeding usually reserved for pets.

Paps knocks on my bedroom door, checking on me as usual. I try to call out that I’m in the kitchen, but my voice has decided to shut down and all that comes out is a weary wheeze. I lay my head back down and wait for him to figure it out. He yells a couple times before I hear him opening the door. Then I hear him coming back downstairs, and, oddly, I also hear the sound of Checkers leaving the bathroom and following Paps. She murmurs something to him. I listen to their footsteps as they come back to the kitchen.

They stop together.

Paps says quietly, “OH NO.”

I feel a twinge of annoyance and consider pushing another book off the table, but I just don’t have the energy. I hear the chair beside me scrape on the floor as it’s pulled out, and then a startlingly soft and warm hand strokes my skull. “Sans?” I turn my head a little so I can see her out of one eye socket. She’s not ready for work. Hasn’t even brushed her hair. If she doesn’t start her ablutions soon, she’s gonna be late. She smiles a little at me. “You didn’t finish your spoons.”

I chuckle weakly. She keeps petting me, and I let my eyes slide closed. Mmm. Feels good. I feel a little less miserable now.

“He’s not sick, is he?” she asks quietly.

“NO, JUST SAD,” Paps answers. “IT HAS NOT BEEN THIS BAD FOR A LONG TIME. I BELIEVE HE IS GETTING BETTER,” my brother continues hopefully, and picks me up out of the chair and shakes me. Yup. Knew it. “SANS! SANS, YOU LAZYBONES! IT IS MORNING AND YOU MUST GET UP NOW BECAUSE I HAVE TO GO TO WORK AND I CANNOT STAY HOME TO TAKE CARE OF YOU! THE ANIMALS NEED ME MORE THAN YOU DO SO YOU MUST PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!”

I groan and brush at him ineffectually. He sets me on my feet. I give him the best smile I can muster. “thanks, bro.”

“IT IS NO PROBLEM AT ALL!” Paps shouts heartily. “WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE FOR BREAKFAST?”

“i think i’m gonna just go to bed,” I tell him. “have a good day at work.” I shuffle towards the staircase. I can hear Paps and Checkers murmuring to each other behind me. I know they’re talking about me, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m the lazy asshole who sat at the table ‘till they caught me. If they’re talking about me now, I have no one to blame but myself.

I stop at the foot of the steps and look up. The staircase seems a lot longer than usual. I try to open a hole in space but all I get is a fizzle of sparks. I can feel gravity dragging at my limbs. I sit on the bottom step and lay my head facedown on one of the higher steps. Think I’ll just sleep here.

In the kitchen, Paps is starting breakfast with the familiar clatter of cookware. Checkers is talking to someone. From the tone of her voice, I can tell it’s not Paps. She must be on the phone.

One of the steps I’m laying on is digging into my ribcage. Maybe I should lay on the floor instead. I could crawl into the under-stair space and be out of the way.

I stay where I am. Can’t move. Too… ugh. …I’m just too ugh right now.

I hear footsteps coming closer. “Shit,” Checkers says softly. She squeezes in next to me on the step and starts stroking my skull again. “CB? Sans? Sans, are you awake?”

“mm-hmm,” I manage. Once again, her petting is hella soothing. I heave a sigh as some of the tightness leaves my chest.

“Can you get up?”

Aw, man, now I have to actually respond. It takes me a second to get up the strength to answer her. “can’t. too lazy.” Please, Checkers, just laugh at the joke and stop worrying.

“This isn’t lazy,” Checkers says quietly. Then she wraps her arms around me and, with a grunt of effort, she stands up, cradling me against her like a baby.

“nnh, checkers, put me down,” I complain as she starts up the steps. My traitorous body curls into her, my face burying itself in her clavicle, one hand fisting into the fabric of her t-shirt. “’s not manly,” I mumble against her shoulder.

“Well,” she replies, a little out of breath from climbing the stairs with me, “When you’re feeling better you can manly the heck out of me. I’ll be _so_ impressed. Maybe you can bench-press me or something.” We reach the top of the stairs and head along the short hallway to my bedroom. “You’re pretty heavy for someone who’s just bones,” she huffs, laughing a little.

“sorry.” Jeez, I can’t even make a joke right now. Even with a great set-up like that. How lame. Checkers puts me on my feet so she can open the door. I lean against the doorframe and start to slide down it. She catches me and picks me back up.

“why’re you doing this?” I ask as she helps me into my bed. “you’re gonna be late for work.”

“I called in.”

She what? “why?”

Checkers gives me an odd look, like affection and concern and perplexed disbelief all mixed up together. “You have no idea how important you are to me, do you?”

I blink at her. She tucks me in like I’m a child. “checkers, don’t put your life on hold for me.” She climbs into bed beside me, laying on top of the covers, sharing the pillow with me. She takes my hand and links her fingers with mine. Her face is so close I can feel her breath. From inches away, she stares into my eyes, and for the life of me I couldn’t say why, but I see love in her eyes. I see love. “i’ll be okay,” I tell her quietly, almost whispering it. “i’m always okay.”

She doesn’t say anything, just resumes petting me, stroking my shoulder, my arm, the side of my face. Her gentle touches warm me from the inside out, easing the tension inside me. I feel honest emotion rising out of the weary numbness as my walls crumble. I shudder and squeeze my eye sockets tightly closed, but I can’t stop the tears from leaking out. I turn my face towards the pillow, intending to bury the damning evidence, but Checkers pulls me to her, just like she did at the housewarming, and once again I’m crying into her shirt while she holds me close. It’s ugly crying this time, sobs and gasps wracking my body as I cling to her. I muffle my noises in her shirt, afraid Paps might hear. Checkers keeps stroking my back and shoulders and murmuring comforts to me. I wordlessly pour out my heart to her with a trust I didn’t think I was still capable of, and when the tears trail off into hiccups and I’m wrung-out and limp, she’s still there.

She’s still with me.

I can feel myself drifting off, and for a while I fight it. Checkers’s warmth, her softness, her scent, they’re all around me, and I don’t want to admit that I need it, but right now I do. I need _her._ Still, I didn’t sleep at all last night, and when I _do_ sleep I don’t sleep well, and now that I’ve had my breakdown and I’m surrounded by care and comfort, sleep is inevitable. As it drags me down into its depths, I feel the need to reach out to her one last time.

“checkers?”

“Mm-hmm?” I feel the vibration of her voice in my bones. I finally drift off, and as I do I feel some words come out of my mouth but I’m almost all-the-way asleep now and they’re probably just a senseless jumble. Which may be for the best.

“i love you.”

_ You _

He’s asleep. You’re warm and comfortable and so, so happy. This makes you feel a little ashamed; Sans is in a crisis right now and your emotions should match that situation better. Instead, as you watch his face relax in sleep, your heart swells with affection.

He’d mumbled something quietly just before he drifted off. You wish you could have heard what he said.

Without conscious decision, you take your hand off his shoulder blade and trace the contours of his face with your fingers. His fascinating pseudo-flesh isn’t reacting the way it does when he’s awake: it’s still forming a full shape under the covers, possibly in response to the weight of the fabric, but when you touch his face, your fingers brush warm, hard bone. You gently explore the light ridges over his eye sockets that give the impression of eyebrows, letting yourself enjoy the smooth chalky texture of him, reveling in the peculiar sense of softness without any of the actuality. It’s surprising that his brow ridges are as hard as they are: you’ve seen how fluidly they move with his expressions. As you think it, his brows draw together a little bit, a small frown forming on his face. You can feel his bone moving, but it remains hard under your fingertips. It’s strange, like the bone is changing shape rather than stretching and flexing as skin does, but the motion feels oddly pleasant under your fingers and you find yourself reluctant to disengage.

Sans makes a small sound, and you quickly withdraw your hand, feeling like a bit of a creep for exploring him while he’s sleeping. You make a resolution to ask him outright if you can examine him sometime. You know him well enough now to trust that he won’t react badly to a request like that. And he knows _you_ well enough not to be too surprised when you ask it of him.

But… this isn’t really about curiosity, is it? You frown to yourself, thinking, watching Sans’s sleeping face relax again from mere inches away. You know what this is. You’ve thought about it enough, looked at it from every angle you could think of, and the more you consider it, the more clear it becomes: you like Sans. _Like_ like him. A _lot._

Your heart spasms in your chest at the admission, and picks up its pace. You’re hyper-aware of the heat of Sans’s body and the fresh, earthy, stormy smell of him. You close your eyes and take a deep breath through your nose, drinking in his scent.

Then you feel guilty for sniffing him.

This is weird, isn’t it? 1) Sans is asleep, and in no condition to tell you to stop touching and smelling him. You’re taking advantage of him. Oh, (Y/N), you’re supposed to be better than this! 2) Sans is a monster. Is interspecies romance wrong? Or, to put it another way, how perverse is it for you to have the hots for a skeleton? What would Dad say? _No grandbabies?_ That’s what he’d say. Oh, for the love of… 3) You’re serious about Sans. If he likes you too, and that’s a big _if,_ you’ll need to take a look at your plans for the future and decide what you’re willing to give up to be with him.

You’ve always pictured yourself in the future with a husband and a gaggle of children. Like Roxy’s parents. A whole family, the sort of bright, busy, messy, difficult, lively life you’ve always wanted.

That’s a lot to just abandon. Deliberately leaving your old dreams behind will take a kind of strength you’ve never used before.

But… it’s Sans.

You bury your face in the pillow. A few tears leak from your eyes.

He’s worth it.

After a moment of self-pity, you pull yourself together. Okay, that’s one question answered. What about the fact he’s a different species? A species at the center of a lot of social concerns right now? There may be some repercussions if you and Sans become an item. Are you ready for friends and loved ones and strangers on the street to look at you with worry and/or disgust? Some people will think you’re the bad guy. Can you accept that without calling _them_ bad guys? That’s something you’re not willing to do. Rejecting an opinion or a behavior is one thing. Rejecting a human being is something else entirely. Can you hold your ground without succumbing to the temptation to hate them the way they may hate you?

You don’t know. You haven’t been widely hated before. Honestly, you’re not sure what kind of effect it might have on you. To find out if you can do this, you’ll have to try it and see what happens.

It’ll take courage.

He’s worth it.

You blow out a small breath, taking a moment to collect yourself. Sans’s warmth and scent and quiet breathing are drawing you close to sleep yourself, despite the morning sunshine streaming through the window. You blink your eyes several times, trying to wake yourself up, determined to come to the end of your thought process. This is too important to abandon halfway through.

If Sans wants you the way you want him, your life will change in ways you’re not sure you’ll be able to cope with. But that will only be an issue if he wants you. Here and there, he’s caused you to wonder if he might be attracted to you, but those incidents could just as easily be attributed to platonic fondness on one hand, and shyness or embarrassment on the other. Aside from the likelihood that the two of you aren’t… uh… compatible, who knows what monsters find attractive, or how they view the possibility of relationships with humans? Flirting and joking around is all in good fun, but Sans might be disgusted if he finds out you’re serious. Your friendship with him is one of the most precious things in your life, and you’re not willing to jeopardize it by putting that sort of pressure on him. Sans is a cautious and very private person. You _do_ want him, but coming on too strong may cause irreparable damage to the relationship the two of you have now. You’ll have to take it slow, and be prepared to back off if he seems uncomfortable. Discovering Sans’s feelings will probably take a long time, and you’ll need to be ready for the possibility that when you find out how he feels, it might break your heart. It will probably take more patience and perseverance than you’ve applied to anything before.

You close the small distance between yourself and Sans, snuggling up to him as you start to drift off.

It’ll be hard.

He’s worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**
> 
> Sans’s depression is a little more variable than most people’s because it’s not caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. Rather, he’s struggled with his situation so intensely for so long that he’s emotionally exhausted. Despite his determination to stay chill, his emotions are actually very close to the surface, they’re generally sharper than other people’s because his “feelings buffer” has been worn away completely so he’s basically one big raw exposed nerve, and worst of all there’s a lot of fuel in his past to feed all the most terrible emotions someone can experience. Poor guy just has so much to deal with, and his coping capacity ran out a long time ago. What this means is that, instead of the more common long weeks or months of “down” followed by periods of normalcy, Sans is on a sort of emotional roller-coaster that cycles relatively quickly through its ups and downs. Underground, it was different: every day was a “down” day and after a while he just went numb. But due to the lack of recent resets and the extended respite from death, killing, and true despair, his psyche is beginning to attempt recovery. Though he feels very unstable right now, he’s actually doing better than he was in-game. At least all emotions are on deck again.


	18. There Shall Be War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the title is somewhat misleading, and pancakes are far more fun than they should be.

_ You _

You wake slowly, warm and comfortable but heavy-limbed after far too much sleep. By the light coming in Sans’s bedroom window, it looks like it’s about noon.

You’ve somehow breached the blanket barrier and the comforter is wadded up in disarranged plush hillocks on top of you both. You’re snugged up against Sans’s chest and in his sleep he’s thrown an arm around you. One of his legs is hooked over your thigh. His breath teases your hair. You sigh, closing your eyes. Oh, god, you like him so, _so_ much.

But your bladder is full and you’ve barely been out of bed today. Even more than the need to visit the bathroom, you’re filled with the need to get up and move.

You extract yourself from the sleeping skeleton carefully, so as not to wake him. Of course, Sans is such a heavy sleeper that it’s not difficult to remove yourself, but as you pull away he mumbles some meaningless syllables and blindly reaches after you. He ends up grabbing the comforter and cuddling with that instead. You chuckle.

After a leisurely shower you head for the kitchen to put together something to eat. There’s a plate of cold pancakes on the table, along with a note from Papyrus: _SIBLINGS, PLEASE ENJOY THESE HIGH-QUALITY GRIDDLE CAKES. (Y/N), THANK YOU FOR TAKING CARE OF SANS. SANS, DO NOT CAUSE (Y/N) TOO MUCH TROUBLE. I LOVE YOU BOTH AND WILL SEE YOU AFTER WORK. FRATERNALLY YOURS, THE GREAT PAPYRUS._ You read the note three times, giggling harder with each read-through. The fact that he thought it necessary to sign it, and so formally, really tickles your funny bone.

Heh.

You consider for a moment the unpleasant possibility that puns are contagious, like a virus.

You check the coffeepot: it’s still full. Papyrus generally just has orange juice in the morning, but Sans needs his coffee and _you_ need to make sure that Sans has what _he_ needs. You put the kettle on for yourself and drop a bag of blackberry sage tea into your favorite big ugly mug. While you’re reheating the pancakes, the kettle whistles, and you start the tea steeping. As that’s going on, you dress the pancakes: extra butter and cinnamon sugar on Sans’s, raspberry jam and powdered sugar on yours. You admire your handiwork for a moment. They’re on paper plates, but they still look pretty good. You put cream and sugar in your tea, pour a mug of black coffee, pop everything onto Papyrus’s big serving tray, and head back upstairs.

Sans is still asleep when you reenter the bedroom, but his peaceful repose has twisted itself into what has to be a nightmare of epic proportions. He’s sweating profusely, breathing rapidly and scrabbling at the blankets. A whimper squeezes itself out from between his clenched teeth. You quickly set the tray down and kneel by the bed, stroking his skull gently. “Sans? It’s okay,” you whisper. “It’s okay.”

He twitches and grunts, then startles awake with a gasp. This startles you in turn, and you jerk backwards, falling off your heels and landing on your backside.

“shit!” Sans rubs his face, wiping the sheen of sweat off, trembling in the aftermath of whatever dream he was having. He lowers his hand and looks at you.

“Ow,” you complain. You think you’ve bruised your tailbone.

“shit, sorry,” Sans apologizes, looking down at the floor as if embarrassed. His voice is shaky and weak. “sorry, didn’t know you were there.” He rubs his face again and glances at the calendar on the wall through his fingers. For a second, an incongruous expression flashes across his face: you’re not sure, but it looks like relief.

“It’s okay.” You grimace, rubbing the injured area. “I can live without my butt.”

Sans snorts in amusement.

You reach behind you and bring the breakfast tray around. Sans’s face lights up, and he gives you the first real smile you’ve seen from him since yesterday. Your heart melts. You smile back and hand him his coffee. “Feeling better?”

“mmh. not completely, but a lot better, yeah.” He takes a sip and his eye sockets close in bliss. “okay, things are improving by the second.”

You chuckle and reach for the pancakes. Then you curse.

“what? what is it?”

“I forgot the silverware.” You’re angry with yourself, but not surprised. You sigh and move to get up.

“guess we’ll have to eat the old-fashioned way,” Sans says. He picks up a sticky buttery pancake with both hands and takes a bite. You flap your hands at him in dismay.

“Stop! Stop it! You’ll get all sticky!”

“appropriate for a sticky situation,” he quips, and nudges the tray towards you with his foot. “roll ‘em up. c’mon, make, like, pancake burritos.”

“Well, needs must,” you say unenthusiastically, and roll your pancakes up with the topping inside. It actually works pretty well: they’re a bit springy from being reheated and they don’t tear as easily as you’d expected. “Huh. I’m impressed.” Sans looks smug. You bite into the roll. A glob of jam squeezes out the end and plops onto the plate. “Less impressed.” Sans snickers. So do you.

You share breakfast together at lunchtime, Sans sitting on the edge of his bed and you cross-legged on the floor, eating with your hands and licking your fingers clean.

“you’ve got jam on your face,” Sans snickers.

“I’ve got jam _everywhere,”_ you complain good-naturedly, and rub around your mouth with a napkin.

Sans laughs quietly. “you missed it.” He points to his face. “right there.” You rub further along your cheek. Sans laughs harder. “no, no, it’s over…” He gestures to his face again. You frown at him suspiciously and scrub both cheeks all over.

“Did I get it this time?” You’re glaring at him playfully.

“i think you made it worse.”

“There’s no jam on my face, is there?”

Sans pretends to look offended. “no, really, it’s right there. there!” Now he’s pointing at _your_ face as you rub various spots with a fresh napkin.

“You’re pointing at different spots,” you observe, laughing yourself now.

“no, here, lemme show ya,” Sans says, and scoots off the bed to sit on the floor in front of you. He lifts his hand. “it’s right…” And almost quicker than your eyes can follow, he scoops a dollop of jam off your plate and dabs it onto your nose. “…there.” You squeak and swat at his hand. Sans chuckles, looking smug. You can’t keep from laughing yourself as you clean your nose off.

“So…” you start, hiding your smile behind the napkin.

“so…?” Sans prompts you. He casually yet blindingly quickly dabs some more jam onto your cheek.

“Hey!” You mock-glare at him. “Okay, that’s it!” You smack him with the paper plate. Powdered sugar poofs around him and several globs of jam stick to his skull. He coughs.

“augh! *cough cough* avast!” Sans hits you with his own plate. Buttery granules of cinnamon sugar stick in your hair. You shriek.

“Stricken by my own hospitality!” You’ve conveniently forgotten that _Papyrus_ actually made the pancakes. “And on the eve of our peoples’ unification! When my kingdom hears of this, there shall be war!” You whap him repeatedly with your plate. Laughing, Sans grabs the pillow off the bed behind him and uses it as a shield. You let yourself fall on top of it, bearing it and Sans both to the ground. “Yield!” you shout, shoving at the pillow as Sans holds it out. He’s not expecting it, and the pillow boffs him in the face. You both crack up. “Yield!” you demand, boffing him again.

“a-ha-ha! okay, okay! i yield!” Sans lets his arms collapse, and the pillow falls to his chest. You let out an “eep!” as you fall with it. You both lay there in a tangle, catching your breaths, flushed with laughter and exertion. After a few moments, you cross your arms on the pillow and lay your chin on them, smiling at Sans. He catches your gaze, locking eyes with you, and slowly his expression shifts, the humor draining away, replaced by something you don’t recognize, something deep and desperate. You feel a stirring in your soul, and your breath catches in your throat.

Sans pushes the pillow up, levering you off him and into a sitting position. You brush at your face and hair, concealing your embarrassment, as he sits up, too. “I’m covered in buttery goodness,” you say wryly. Sans snickers.

“also, you’ve got some jam right…” You hit him with the pillow. He laughs.

“Well, now I need to shower again,” you say, getting to your feet.

“aw, no, don’t go,” Sans says, and then looks surprised at himself. “you haven’t even finished your tea,” he adds, fumbling the recovery.

“That’s true,” you concede, and sit back down, next to him this time so you can lean against the bed. You take a sip from your mug. “I really need to get the sticky off, though.”

“that’s what happens when you start a war. you get sticky.”

“Excuse me, _you_ started that war.”

“let’s not get caught up in who made the opening sally,” Sans attempts to evade, leaning back against the bed himself and draining off his coffee. “the important thing is that wars make one sticky.”

“As do breakfasts with sugary things and no silverware. I think you’re trying to divert my attention from the fact that _all of this…”_ You gesture to your cinnamon-sugary face and hair. “…is _your_ fault.”

“hey, you’re the one that forgot the silverware. don’t try to pin this on me.” Sans is chuckling, enjoying the playful debate.

_“I_ would have gone to get some. _You_ convinced me otherwise.”

“and by allowing yourself to be convinced, you share responsibility for the decision and thereby share the blame.”

You think for a moment. “I concede the point, but not the argument.” Sans laughs. You lean against his shoulder and sip from your mug again. He goes still beside you. Then, slowly, as if coming to a decision, he leans into you. You lay your head on his shoulder. He sighs. Then you rub your sugar-covered face on his sleeve.

“h-hey!”

“Wars make one sticky, remember?” you laugh, and go to take a shower, leaving him spluttering behind you.

* * * * *

You head back to Sans’s room after cleaning up, sporting fresh clothes and toweling your hair dry. Sans is back in bed when you reenter his room. Your heart sinks. He’d really seemed like he was feeling better. You wonder for a moment if he’s asleep again, before he rolls over and looks at you with a small, sleepy smile.

“hey. squeaky-clean, i see.”

“You’re still all sticky,” you scold him, and, grabbing him by the hand, you drag him out of bed. “Now I have to change the sheets.”

Sans makes a disappointed “aww” as you pull him to his feet. You look at him for a moment, waiting, and when he just rubs one of his eye sockets and yawns, you take his hoodie by the shoulders and drag it down his arms. “h-hey!” he objects, grabbing for it, but you’ve already hauled it past his hands and dropped it to the floor. He bends over for it, but you push at his shoulders, straightening him back up.

“If you don’t go shower _right now,_ the shirt is next,” you threaten, gripping the bottom of his t-shirt. Sans’s eyes widen in alarm and he grabs the edge of the shirt himself, holding it down.

“d-don’t undress me!” he protests, blushing so furiously he’s practically incandescent. Then he scowls and winces at the same time, a delayed response to his own childish exclamation. Honestly, you think it was cute. There was a little squeak at the end and everything.

“Go take a shower, CB,” you say, smiling a little as you push him towards the door. He grumbles on the way out, still brilliantly-flushed, still clutching the edge of his shirt as though it might fly off all on its own. You chuckle to yourself and start stripping the bed. It seems like Sans doesn’t change his sheets that often: these ones are starting to feel a little tacky. Or maybe that’s the remnants of your breakfast.

It doesn’t take long to get fresh sheets on the bed, and as you stand back and admire your handiwork, you realize that a nicely-made bed is only as pleasant as the room it’s in. With a huff of breath, you bend over and start picking dirty laundry up off the floor. Halfway through, you remember that Sans didn’t bring any clean clothes with him when he went to shower.

Left to his own devices, he might just crawl right back into his powdered-sugary clothing.

You dump your armload of laundry in a pile in the corner and snag a pair of gray sweat pants and a t-shirt that says “Free Shrugs” out of Sans’s dresser. (The dresser is nearly empty. It seems most of his clothing is on the floor. You’re starting to wonder if all the clothes you picked up were actually dirty.) You take your fresh armload down the hall, tap on the bathroom door, and tell Sans you’re leaving clean clothes for him on the hall table just outside the door. His affirmative noise is almost drowned out by the sound of the shower. Then you head back to his room to continue tidying up.

When Sans comes back, his room isn’t exactly sparkling, but the dirty laundry is gone and some of the trash has been picked up. It looks a lot better, you think, pleased with your progress.

“you… you cleaned my room?” Sans is staring at you. You can’t read the look on his face.

“Uh… just a little. Is it okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

Sans looks down at his feet. “sorry,” he says shortly.

You’re confused. “Huh? Sorry for what?”

“sorry for, y’know, for being… being a mess, having a dirty room, keeping you from work ’n’ all… just sorry.”

The apologies hit you like a knife to the heart. Tears start in your eyes. You blink rapidly to force them back as you rush to Sans and catch him up in a tight hug. “Don’t!” you say breathily. “Don’t apologize! Please don’t!”

Slowly, Sans’s arms come up around you, and he wraps his fingers in the back of your shirt. “i… uh… what should i…”

“Just be yourself,” you say, and without releasing him from the hug, you pull him back towards the bed, one step at a time. “It’s okay to be sad sometimes, all right? It’s okay to need rest. It’s okay to let people be there for you.” Sans’s arms tighten around you, and once again, you feel hot tears seeping through your shirt and wetting your neck. You disengage from him and pull the covers back, then gently push him into bed. He wipes a hand over his eye sockets. His tears glow lightly blue as they appear, but turn colorless quickly. He wipes at them again, looking embarrassed. You turn away for a minute to peruse the bookshelf. Sans pulls the covers over himself.

“checkers,” he says quietly. There’s something in his voice, something powerful and awe-filled and sweetly desperate.

“Hmm?” you respond, pulling _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ off the shelf and turning to look at him. He blushes, looking ashamed of himself for some reason.

“nothin’.”

“Huh. Okay.” You bring the book back to bed and pull the covers up. “Scoot over.” Sans stares at you, a little shocked, and then scoots towards the wall. You climb into bed beside him. “We’ve got a few hours before Papyrus comes home. You should get some more sleep.”

“uhh… wh-why’re you sleeping with me?” He looks less depressed and more flustered at this development.

“I don’t want you to have nightmares,” you say. “You need real rest. And I’m done sleeping, myself.” You hold up the book. “I’m going to read.”

“you don’t have to…”

“Hush,” you tell him, not unkindly, and turning onto your side, you pull his arm around you from behind so he’s spooning you. He trembles, and then tightens the hold, bringing himself close to you. You can feel his breath warm the back of your neck. “Reading in bed all day is one of life’s greatest pleasures,” you finish happily, opening _Hitchhiker’s Guide._ It’s an old favorite, and you’re looking forward to reading it again.

“knew there was a reason i liked you,” Sans murmurs. You chuckle as you begin to read. _“Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small, unregarded yellow sun…”_

* * * * *

“SIBLINGS! I AM HOME!” The shout wakes you from a comfortable doze. _Hitchhiker’s Guide_ has fallen from your limp hand to the floor. Sans has molded himself to you in his sleep, pelvis pressed into your backside, legs tangled with yours, and the hand on the end of the arm he’s holding you with has crept under your shirt and is a little higher on your body than you’re comfortable with. You blush and scoot it downwards, concerned that being accidentally fondled is more of a threat than you’d previously expected. Sans mutters something in his sleep and squeezes your belly flab gently. You squeak, squirm, and giggle. _Augh, that tickles!_ In response to your wriggling, Sans holds you tighter to him. Then he groans and bites you lightly on the back of the neck. You squeak again, this time in alarm. _Shit, shit, time to get out of here!_

You untangle yourself from the sleeping skeleton. His grasping hand gropes for you and pulls the pillow around to snuggle with. Before he draws it to his chest, you see that blue light shining under his shirt again. You blink a couple times, and blush. You’ve got a better idea now of what that means, though you’re still curious about what it _is._

“SANS? (Y/N)? THE GREAT PAPYRUS HAS RETURNED!”

You stick your head out Sans’s door and say, just loudly enough to carry down the stairs, “Papyrus, we’re here.” You leave the room, closing the door quietly behind you, and go to give Papyrus a hug. “Welcome home!” you say, smiling as the lanky skeleton picks you up to snuggle you. “Sans is sleeping,” you add as he sets you back down.

_“STILL?_ THAT LAZYBONES! DOES HE EVEN REMEMBER THAT THEIR MAJESTIES ARE HOSTING A PARTY TONIGHT?”

You wince. “Papyrus, I…”

“I HOPE HE AT LEAST TOOK A SHOWER. AND WE MUST FIND HIM SOME SUITABLE ATTIRE. BY WHICH I MEAN SOME SORT OF SUIT.”

“I don’t know if he’ll be up to going to the party,” you finish sadly.

Papyrus’s smile falls. Then he picks it back up and strikes an overly dramatic pose. Somehow his ragged red scarf flutters behind him despite the lack of a breeze in the house. “IN THAT CASE, I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, MUST _MAKE_ HIM UP TO IT! HE WILL NOT GET OUT OF GOING, EVEN IF I HAVE TO DRAG HIM ALL THE WAY THERE MYSELF!” You cringe, thinking of Sans, of how tired he is and how his emotions seem to be out of his control right now.

“’s okay, paps,” Sans’s voice issues from the top of the stairs. He casually slouches his way down them, hands in his pockets. “missin’ the party would be a real _drag.”_

You and Papyrus both groan. “That one was worse than usual,” you complain, but you’re smiling. You’re happy to see him up and about.

Sans shrugs. “can ya blame a guy for tryin’ to be party your evening?” he asks you, grinning.

“Uh…” You’re stricken for a moment. That sounded like flirtation. You try a small, sweet smile on him. “I New Year were into me,” you reply playfully. You struggled for that one: puns don’t come easily to you. Sans, who’d been looking smug, suddenly blushes and looks a bit disoriented. His grin turns a little goofy as he stares at you.

“i love a girl who’s s _pun_ ky.” Now it’s your turn to blush.

“I… I don’t really have a pro _pun_ sity for them,” you admit, probably trying too hard. But Sans gives you a real laugh, and suddenly you’re convinced it was worth the effort.

“you know, at first i didn’t care for punning, but it’s groan on me.”

You snort laughter at that one.

Papyrus makes a miserable noise, like a groan and a squawk had a very sick baby. “STOP! YOU MUST NOT RUIN A FINE EVENING WITH TERRIBLE PUNS!” He tosses the trailing end of his scarf behind him in a dramatic gesture and stomps for his room. “I AM GOING TO GO MAKE MYSELF LOOK SHARP! I SUGGEST YOU DO THE SAME!” You giggle at Papyrus’s retreating back and glance at Sans. He’s chuckling, too, and exchanges a satisfied glance with you.

“Yeaaaah, I think I’m out of puns, anyway,” you say, shrugging. You get closer to Sans and murmur, “Are you sure you’ll be okay? I know how tired you are.”

“i’m good,” he reassures you. “need to get out of bed sometime, right? and sleep without nightmares really helped.” As he says it, something seems to strike him, and he blushes.

“What?” you ask curiously.

“nothin’.”

You cock an eyebrow at him.

“you don’t wanna know.” He waves you off. “don’t you have primping to do?”

“Oh, yeah, I need to get ready!” you say excitedly, and make a dash for your room. You can hear Sans chuckling behind you for a moment before Papyrus’s voice comes down the stairs. 

“BROTHER! COME UP TO MY ROOM! I BELIEVE YOU WILL STILL FIT IN LAST YEAR’S APPROPRIATE OUTFIT!” 

You snicker at Sans’s beleaguered sigh as you shut your door behind you and pull out the brand new dress you bought for the occasion. At the prompting of what you thought was a brilliant idea, you scoured the internet for this dress, and you’re looking forward to the boys’ reactions to it. Especially Sans’s.

You hold it up to yourself in the mirror. You happen to think it’s quite pretty, in its own way. You hope the others don’t think it’s inappropriate, or too silly. _Well,_ you think to yourself, _Only one way to find out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~ Author's Note ~**
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be about the New Year’s party. Instead, it turned into a food fight. A totally unplanned bunch of random nonsense, and I think it’s one of my favorite chapters. What has my life come to?
> 
> Sans’s sudden shyness when they’re talking about sleep without nightmares at the end there is caused by him remembering his most recent dream, the groany bitey one. Of course it was a sexy dream starring Checkers. :P
> 
> Sometimes you just can’t seem to find the right chapter title. “Pancakes?” “It’s Okay?” “Wars make one sticky?” All the possibilities sucked so hard this time around.


	19. Girl Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a previous acquaintance grows into friendship under the influence of confessed romantic concerns and liquor.

_Sans_

Well, I look pretty snazzy, I guess, but at what cost?

Paps stands back and makes a noise of approval, by which I mean he shouts, “I APPROVE!” in my ear hole.

“i’m glad,” I tell him, wincing.

“NOW YOU GO SIT ON THE COUCH, AND DO NOT MOVE OR YOU WILL GET RUMPLED. I AM GOING TO MAKE MYSELF EVEN SHARPER THAN USUAL, AND THEN I WILL COME MAKE YOU PUT ON THE TIE AGAIN.”

I flinch guiltily. I’d already been reaching for the knot in preparation for yanking off the damn thing. “dunno what you’re talkin’ about, bro.”

Paps pats me on the back and shoves me out the door at the same time. As soon as it clicks shut behind me I pull the tie off and unbutton the top button of the sky-blue dress shirt. Much better. I stuff my hands in the gray suit jacket pockets and make my way downstairs. I hate being handled like a child, and I’m feeling a little grumpy because of it.

As I hit the bottom of the stairs, Checkers comes around the corner with her make-up bag, on her way to the bathroom, I guess. I stop in my tracks and just stare. Lord have mercy.

She’s in this little black dress, pretty simple, with long sleeves, a wide scooped neck, and an above-the-knees skirt that swings around her legs as she moves. There’s… uh… there’s a lot of leg there. I swallow hard and drag my eyes up from her gams. The best part about this dress? It’s got a frickin’ skeleton ribcage printed on it. God almighty, she just crammed beautiful, sexy, and adorable all into the same dress.

Also, this is the first time I’ve seen her in a short skirt since the day we met. I feel different about her now then I did back then, and an image flashes through my mind of me tracing the line of her thigh up beneath the hem of that skirt. My fingers twitch. I yank at the collar of my shirt nervously and force myself to meet her eyes. Better avoid looking at her legs again, if at all possible.

Checkers is staring at me, too. After gaping for a second, she blinks a couple times and says, “You clean up nice.” I feel a swell of pride at the complement. “Blue’s a good color on you,” she continues awkwardly, as if this shirt isn’t about the same color as the hoodie I wear every day. She winces a little, and adds, “And gray. Blue and gray. Look good. On you.” Just when I thought she couldn’t get any cuter…

“thanks,” I respond. My voice is a little low-pitched and I hope I don’t sound too shy. “love the dress.”

“Thanks,” she says back at me. “You don’t think it’s too silly?”

“it’s sexy as hell,” I say before my sluggish, Checkers-addled brain can catch up with my mouth. Goddammit, Sans!

But Checkers just blushes prettily and smiles a smile that zings through me like a million volts. She does a little twirl for me, and the skirt flares out a bit. Aww, there’s a spine on the back of it, too. Adorable.

God, I think I’ve probably got a dopey lovestruck look on my face. C’mon, man, pull it together.

“Well, gotta go primp,” she says cheerfully. On her way past me, she runs her fingers over my shoulder. It’s almost enough to make me lose my cool. I mean, what’s left of my cool. Aw, who’m I kidding? That woman wrecks me.

When I reach the couch, I sink down into its cushions and wish I could disappear. I sit there wishing that for almost fifteen minutes. Paps comes through the living room at one point and stops whatever he’s in the middle of long enough to button my top button and put the tie back on. Once he’s gone again I undo all his hard work in a fraction of the time it took him to do it. Why does he never give up?

Makes me feel like a quitter.

Checkers comes back downstairs, all perfumed and prettied-up. She sits down next to me, knees together so’s not to flash the room her underwear. I glance at her legs again before I can stop myself and then clasp my hands together in my lap and stare at them like they’re my worst enemies and they’re conspiring against me right now. Hands, I swear to god, I will end you.

“So are we driving there, or…” Checkers asks me, hope shining in her eyes.

“i was planning to bring you and paps via shortcut,” I tell her, and her face breaks out in this brilliant smile. Huh. Didn’t know she liked it that much. Damn, I could’ve been taking her on rides every day. Shit, that sounded wrong. “i’m guessin’ that’s okay?” I ask, feeling a self-satisfied smirk crawl up my face at her reaction.

“Yeah, it’s great!” she says enthusiastically.

“heh. checkers, if you wanted rides ’n’ stuff, all you had to do was ask.”

“Oh, um…” Suddenly her eyes are cast down at her hands, fingers wringing together nervously. “I don’t want to put you to the trouble.”

“aw, checkers,” I start, and before I can talk myself out of it, I lay an arm around her shoulders. “i’ll take you wherever you wanna go, whenever you wanna go there.” She leans into me and sighs, laying her head on my shoulder. Suddenly I’m so happy I don’t know what to do with myself. This just feels so _right._

“I don’t want to be a burden,” she murmurs.

“checkers, you’re a blessing,” I say, just as quietly. “don’t ever doubt it.” I mean it, too. Please let her believe it. She deserves so much. She turns her head to look at me, eyes shining. Without conscious decision, I lean towards her and kiss her on the forehead. She shivers and sighs again. My mouth lingers on her skin for a moment or two longer than it should, but for once I don’t feel guilty. Checkers has turned her whole body towards me and her hand is clutching the hem of my shirt. I lean back and open my eyes, which seem to have drifted closed at some point. Checkers’s eyes have shut as well, and as they slowly slide open, they reveal a dreamy expression that causes my soul to do a backflip in my ribcage. She looks into my eyes, and once again I’m caught. I can’t look away. Can’t breathe, either.

“THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS READY!” I startle and whip my arm off Checkers’s shoulders, clasping my hands in my lap again. Checkers sits up ramrod-straight, looking flushed and a little panicky. A second later, Paps sweeps into the room in an honest-to-god tux, looking like James Fucking Bond. But cooler. “SIBLINGS! LET US BE OFF! THE NEW YEAR AWAITS!”

I lever myself off the couch as, beside me, Checkers bounces up without any apparent effort. She’s blushing; is that out of embarrassment, or something else? That look on her face… could it have been what I think it was? …Or did I wishful-thinking myself into an actual hallucination? Ugh, the last thing I need is hallucinations on top of all the other Weird Sans Shit.

“Papyrus first,” she says, eyes shining in anticipation. My god, I forgot how enthusiastic she is about this magic stuff. I should show her my gravity tricks sometime. Bet she’d get a kick outta those.

“sure,” I say. “back in a minute.” Paps hugs me around the shoulders and we’re off.

 

_ You _

 

As soon as Sans and Papyrus are gone, you move into the area they’ve just vacated. You hold your hand out into the air where Sans was standing and wiggle your fingers around, as if you might be able to feel some remnant of the void they’d vanished into. You can’t shake the feeling that creating wormholes, tearing holes in space and time, should leave some sort of mark on the universe. The thought crosses your mind that traveling this way might not be entirely safe. But Sans does it all the time, and he takes people with him sometimes, and none of them have ever been hurt. Sans knows his “shortcuts” a lot better than you do, and if he thought they were dangerous, he wouldn’t risk taking others through them. You wave your hand in the empty space again, just as the air opens like a great hungry mouth and Sans steps through it, back into the living room.

You accidentally smack him in the shoulder.

“ow. what?”

“Oh, shoot, I’m sorry! I was… uh…”

“looked like you were flapping your hand in the air.” Sans sniggers; obviously he’s got an idea of what you were actually up to and is hoping to make you say it. You sigh and acquiesce.

“I wondered if your shortcuts might leave... like, remnants, or something.”

Sans chuckles. “nope. cleanest method of travel on the planet.”

You smile. “I know it’s silly. I just had the feeling that ripping holes in space and time might leave scars.”

Unexpectedly, Sans clutches at his ribcage, dress shirt bunching under his hand. His pupils shrink to pinpricks in his shock. It takes less than a second for him to school his expression and lower his hand, but the damage is done.

You remember the white mark crossing his ribcage. Your initial observation was right. It _is_ a scar.

Sans watches you warily. He knows as well as you do that he’s given himself away.

He’s shutting you out again.

You lower your head, unable to look at him. Tears prick at your eyes.

“checkers?” Sans’s voice is filled with alarm. A second later, you feel his warm, bony hands on your shoulders. “checkers, what is it?” You struggle against them, but the tears start to fall.

“Y-you don’t have to tell me if you do-on’t want to,” you sob, raising a hand to wipe at your face. You’re embarrassed by your outburst, or implosion might be more accurate. “You don’t ha-ave to tell me. Just don’t l-look at me like tha-at.” You can barely speak, you’re crying so hard. You tell yourself you’re overreacting, but it doesn’t help. Every time Sans withdraws, it hurts you more than it did the last time. All those little wounds are finally taking their toll.

You can feel Sans’s distress as he removes his hands from your shoulders. They’re now hovering uncertainly by your upper arms, as if he wants to rub your arms or maybe pull you into a hug, but he’s completely at a loss. “like what?” he asks, voice strained with worry.

“L-like I’m-m dangerous,” you sob. “I do-on’t want to h-hurt you, Sans. I’d n-never hu-urt you.” Here you pause to gasp for a moment. Talking while crying is making you short of breath. “D-don’t look at me li-ike I’m your enemy.”

Sans is silent for a while, watching you while you sniffle and sob. Finally, “may i touch you?” His voice is uncertain; you didn’t know such a deep voice could sound so small. You nod, wiping your face. Sans pulls you into a hug. “i’m sorry,” he murmurs in your ear. “(y/n), i am so, so sorry.” You bury your face in the crook of his neck and cling to him. A little time to think has cleared your head a bit.

“I’m sorry, too,” you say thickly, sniffing again. You hope you don’t get snot on Sans’s jacket. “I know I can’t push you or rush you in this. I can’t force you to trust me.” You clutch him harder, as if you think he could disappear at any moment.

“you shouldn’t have to ask,” he responds. His voice is pained. “you deserve all the trust i have to offer. but checkers… checkers, that reservoir is empty. god, fuck, there’s nothing to give!” A choked sob escapes Sans now, and he tightens his hold on you. A deep breath shudders out of you and the two of you cling to each other in desperation, struggling to be close physically in an attempt to bridge the emotional chasm. As your distress subsides, Sans muses, almost to himself, “i guess that’s… not entirely true, though, is it?”

You wait for him to elaborate.

“when i, y’know, break down in front of you… like this morning… that’s, uh, that takes trust. it’s… huh…” His voice has taken on something like wonder. “guess i have a little trust to give, after all.” He starts stroking your back, tracing those familiar small circles with his metacarpals.

“Well,” you say, voice muffled by his jacket, “It’s a start.” Sans chuckles as you pull away, and then gives a little, surprised laugh. “What?” you ask, and then gasp in horror at the dark spot you’ve left on his jacket from your eye makeup.

“your face,” Sans chortles.

“Your jacket!” You rub your hand over the spot, trying to fade it out a little. It doesn’t work.

“people’ll think i punched you! twice!” Sans strokes the soft skin under your eye with his thumb, still sniggering.

“Don’t, you’ll get all smudged,” you say, smiling a little, grasping his wrist. His fingertips trail over your cheek as you slowly draw his hand away. You feel your face heating up again. You’re starting to get a bit dizzy from the numerous ups and downs of the day. “I’m going to go fix my face,” you finish, letting him go. “What are you going to do about your jacket?”

Sans pulls his jacket off, tosses it on the couch, and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his pants, grinning.

“Oh, come on,” you protest, laughing a little.

“what? less for paps to fuss over.”

You fiddle with the hem of your skirt for a moment. “Are you sure you’re up for this party? ‘Cause I think it might be too much for me right now.”

Sans takes the question seriously. You can tell he’s considering the answer carefully. Finally, “i’m good with it. i’ll just get a spot on a couch and stay there all night. no pressure, no expectations. but if you don’t want to go, we can stay here instead.” You look searchingly at him, surprised that he used the word “we.” He catches your look and backpedals. “i mean, i could stay here with you, or if you wanted i could go to the party and you’d have the house to yourself. it’s whatever you feel like doing. you know. whatever.” He’s turning redder as he fumbles for words.

You decide to spare him the embarrassment. “I think we should go to the party.” You smile at him. “A spot on a couch sounds pretty good. And who knows when we’ll get to see everyone again?”

“yeah, okay.” He’s trying to act casual, but he looks happy. Your smile grows wider.

“Okay, I’m going to go fix my makeup.” You head for the bathroom as Sans’s phone rings.

“yeah? oh, hey, paps. yeah, we got a little sidetracked. be there soon.”

* * * * *

Toriel’s house is decorated elaborately for the holidays, and it smells like butterscotch-cinnamon pie, pine needles, and apple cider. It’s a very big house, but still not as impressive as you’d expect of the home of the monsters’ royal family. The furniture is classy but comfortable, the atmosphere one of acceptance and hospitality, and though it seems like the entire Underground has come to ring in the new year, you don’t feel the press of the crowd. There’s plenty of room for everyone.

“Yes, the MIC did an extraordinary job getting this place for us, did they not?” Toriel tells you happily. “They are such kind young people.”

“The MIC?” you ask, searching your memory. It sounds familiar, but you can’t place it.

“The Monster Integration Coalition,” Toriel reminds you.

“Oh, those guys?” You remember a couple of news stories now, but they’d implied that the MIC was just a group of demonstrators, another flag-waving footnote making their wishes for monster rights known while others did the actual work. “They got you this place?”

“Yes, they did, and we are very grateful. It is important for the leaders of a nation to have a place suitable to receive powerful and affluent guests.”

“monsters don’t have any legal rights,” Sans reminds you from his place at your side. Your eyes widen in realization. You hadn’t even thought of what that would mean when it came to housing. “that includes property rights,” he continues, confirming your conclusion. “one of the things the mic does is buy houses for monsters to live in. whoever moves into the house is sort of renting from the coalition. they send the money for the mortgage and electric and all that jazz to the mic, and the mic uses it to pay the bills.”

“Complicated,” you comment. You can already see several ways in which such a situation could be inconvenient, or even go badly wrong. You hope no monsters have gotten in trouble for trespassing in their own homes. Or, well, these places _aren’t_ their own homes. That’s the problem.

“Hopefully it is only a temporary arrangement,” Toriel smiles at you. “We are all working very hard to reach an agreement regarding rights.”

“They won’t give us an inch if we don’t agree to relinquish our own nation and become immigrant citizens,” Asgore complains, stumping up with a plate full of appetizers. “But if we were to do that, Tori and I would lose all ability to protect our people. If we simply join this nation, they may treat us well at first, but what’s to stop them from treating us unfairly once we’ve become dependent on their rule?” Toriel strokes her husband’s furry arm reassuringly. He sighs and offers her a bite of his escargot, which she accepts with great pleasure. A little calmer, Asgore continues, “Our magic is strong, but our bodies are much weaker than yours. We are vulnerable to the malice of humans, and they are capable of great malice.”

“It is the malice that hurts us, really,” Toriel expounds. She has both tendency and talent when it comes to teaching, and she’s given you in-depth explanations several times tonight without your having to ask a single question. “Our bodies are so deeply connected to our souls,” she continues, “that an attack from the soul of another does physical damage to us. You could hit one of us with your car by accident and we might walk away from it with only some bruises and sprains, but any intent to harm is poison to us.”

You think about that. What must it be like, being so vulnerable to deliberate injury, so frail in the face of malevolence? No wonder all the monsters you’ve met have been so kind. Imagine slapping a petty enemy and accidentally killing them. The thought is appalling. Monsters’ loving natures must have developed from this. The dangers of anger and bitterness are so much greater in their society than in humans’.

“you’re bein’ awfully quiet,” Sans says, a little concerned. “you okay?”

“Yeah,” you respond, giving him a small smile. “Just a little, you know, worried.”

“well, don’t be.” Sans ruffles your hair. You slap at his hand. Honestly! You just fixed it an hour ago! He continues, “we’ll be okay. we still have lots of options, and plenty of friends.”

“Oh, do not worry, my child!” Toriel exclaims in dismay. “I did not intend to cause you distress! Please have faith that everything will work out. In a situation where we have little, we have much to hope for!”

You laugh, surprised at this observation. It’s true that hope only exists where there’s need or difficulty, when you want something you don’t have. You’d never thought about it before. One of the most incredible, beautiful things in the world, and it can only bloom in adversity. “Okay, okay, I’ll keep my chin up,” you tell them all fondly. You feel a great swell of love for these people, their kindness and their persistent optimism. Sans’s bony hand slips into yours. You weave your fingers together with his and squeeze gently. He returns the pressure warmly.

Then a pair of webbed hands grab you from behind and yank you away from the small skeleton and around the corner, into what looks like a study. You register Alphys standing to one side of the door, grinning manically, just before she shuts it and clicks the lock into place. A second later, Sans steps out of the empty air, looking annoyed. The hands let you go, and from behind you, Undyne whines, “No fair, Arbiter!”

Sans shoots you a glance, making sure you’re okay, before smirking at Undyne. “who said life was fair, captain?”

“P-please, Sans, we just wanted to have some g-girl talk time,” Alphys interjects. There’s something calming in her tone that brings Undyne down from the ledge of irritation she’s teetering on. Sans seems to relax, as well.

“Judges shouldn’t cheat,” Undyne mutters reproachfully, seemingly determined to have the last word. Sans shrugs nonchalantly.

“Why did you have to kidnap me to have ‘girl talk time?’” you ask pointedly. You’d been startled, and the adrenaline is making you a bit irritable.

“Hadda get you away from Lazybones somehow,” Undyne says, slapping you on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. She slaps you so hard it stings a bit. You try not to flinch and fail.

“D-didn’t work, though,” Alphys adds, a little disconsolately.

You roll your eyes. “You could have just asked. Sans, you can go enjoy the party.”

Sans eyes Undyne and Alphys for a moment. “you sure?”

You blink, startled at his reply. “Why? Are they dangerous?” Alphys groans, dismayed, and together she and her girlfriend start protesting, words running over each other so you can’t tell what they’re saying.

“what? no, no,” Sans reassures you. “i just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

You laugh. “Oh, okay. I’ll be fine. Some girl talk might be nice. I haven’t been able to spend time with Roxy recently, you know.”

“Oh, yeah, that reminds me,” Undyne says, smiling wickedly. “Where’s Grillby? Why isn’t he here tonight?”

“Y-yes, wh-where’s Grillby?” Alphys echoes delightedly. The two of them are grinning at each other and you can’t tell whether the question is directed at you or Sans. Apparently, there’s no need for an answer, regardless, because Undyne puts her hands on the skeleton’s back and pushes him bodily out the door.

“h-hey!”

“Girl talk! No boys allowed!” Undyne crows. You give him a small smile, a shrug and a little wave before Alphys slams the door in his face.

“So…” Undyne starts, uncharacteristically encouraging you to comment rather than demanding it.

“Y-you and Sans, huh?” Alphys enthuses. You’re momentarily speechless.

Undyne throws her arm around your shoulders. “How’d you manage that one?” You struggle for words, unprepared for such a straightforward attack.

“I… I’m not with Sans!” you blurt out, blushing furiously.

“Whaaaat?” Undyne goes in the space of an instant from appearing elated to looking like you’ve just told her you have two heads and one of them is singing Bohemian Rhapsody _right now._ “Did you not see how he came to your rescue just now?” Uh oh, she’s starting to look angry.

“A-and the two of you are _always_ together!” Alphys exclaims, sounding upset for some reason.

“You guys disappeared together during the Christmas Party! What were you doing, huh?”

“Have you _seen_ the way he l-looks at you?”

_“Looks_ at me?” you splutter, struggling to keep up in a conversation that’s rapidly leaving you behind.

“Like you’re an ice-cream cone and he just wants to…” Undyne makes a lewd slurping sound. Alphys erupts into giggles, but also smacks Undyne lightly on the arm. The water spirit looks, momentarily at least, slightly ashamed of that last comment.

“U-um, wait, guys, wait a minute…”

“Okay, okay,” Alphys says. “L-let’s take it down a notch, all right?” She turns to you, looking serious. “So why _aren’t_ you with him? Is it b-because he’s a skeleton?”

“What? No, no! It’s not anything like that!” _Are we really going to talk about this?_ you ask yourself. _And am I going to tell them the truth, or hatch an escape plan?_

“So what _is_ it?” Undyne demands, taking your hand in both of hers. “Do you know how hard it is for skeletons to find love?” she appeals to you, single eye wide and sparkling.

“W-what? Why’s that? I think he’s…” Are you really going to do this? “… really… cute.” Yes. Yes you are.

Undyne and Alphys squeal like twelve-year-olds at a boy-band concert. “S-so you _do_ like him!” Alphys says delightedly.

“I…” You sigh. “I really do.”

The two of them squeal again, if possible more loudly than before. You smile a little, embarrassed but swamped with sudden relief. It feels good to finally admit that out loud, to get it out in the open.

“S-so what are you going to do?” Alphys asks.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Sans has… some problems.”

Undyne rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it.” Alphys elbows her gently.

You search for the right words, wanting to share your difficulties without disclosing too much about Sans’s troubles. He talks so little about himself; he probably wouldn’t want you talking about him, either. “I think… it’s really hard for him to trust and open up to people. He keeps me at arm’s length. I don’t even think it’s deliberate: it’s like an unconscious reaction. I don’t know how to get closer.”

“Like this!” Undyne crows, drags Alphys to her, and plants an appallingly passionate kiss on her lips. After a moment, you avert your eyes. When you hear Alphys giggle, you decide it’s safe to look again.

“Really, guys, I think pushing him too hard might ruin everything,” you say sadly, sinking into one of the plush recliners bracketing a bookshelf.

“What?” Undyne protests. “No way! He’s probably just worried ‘cause there’s no such thing as a skele-schlong.”

“Oh god,” you say, and hide your face in your hands.

“You knew that, right?” Undyne asks, sounding suddenly worried.

“Yeah, well, I suspected it, but… I’m just… just totally humiliated right now,” you groan from behind your palms.

“Oh, d-don’t be,” Alphys says, and, coming over to you, rubs your shoulder kindly. “You’re among friends here.”

“Friends who want what’s best for you! And for Bonehead! So woman up and smooch that skeleton!”

“Undyne,” Alphys says gently, “I think we shouldn’t push (Y/N) so hard. Look how embarrassed she is.”

You make an effort to lower your hands. You can feel your face burning. “I don’t know, guys. I don’t even know if he likes me back.”

The two of them rush to protest at the same time.

_“O-of course_ he likes you!”

“You’re such a dingus, (Y/N)!”

“I’ve never s-seen him l-look at anyone the way he looks at y-you!”

“Are you _fucking blind,_ you massive dork?!”

“Hey!” you protest, glaring at Undyne. She smiles a sharp-toothed smile at you. You twist your fingers together. “How do you know it’s more than him seeing me as a good friend?”

The pair go thoughtfully silent.

“I-I guess, since we don’t often see Sans so c-close to anyone, it might be…”

“Whaaaat?! No way, babe! He’s totally into her!”

“N-no, Undyne, _she’s_ into _him,_ and we think we know how he f-feels, but we really can’t be s-sure, can we?”

“I… but… Okay, there’s only one way to settle this! (Y/N), you have to kiss him! Like, _right now!”_ Alarmingly, Undyne drags you out of your chair and pushes you a foot or so towards the door.

“S-stop!” Alphys cries.

Undyne stops. She stares at her girlfriend, wide-eyed.

“Th-this is a d-delicate situation,” Alphys says. Again, her voice has that soothing quality that seems to bring Undyne down from her peak of hyperactive excitement. “We’ve g-got to support (Y/N) without tipping the balance. If we t-tip it in the wrong direction, o-or it f-falls too f-fast…” As she gets more anxious, her stutter gets worse. You wonder if it’s not a speech impediment, but is rather related to nerves. If she becomes completely comfortable around you, will her stutter disappear?

Undyne slumps into the chair she’s just pulled you out of, sulking a little. “If she kisses Sans and he kisses her back, there won’t be any doubt they like each other.”

Alphys eyes her girlfriend, not unkindly. “A-and if he _doesn’t_ kiss her back? If he s-starts avoiding her instead of dating her?”

Undyne sinks further into the chair. She crosses her arms and pouts.

You decide to contribute, at least a little, to the conversation. “I think he might like me too…” you start, and are immediately drowned out by the other girls’ squeals. “BUT!” you shout, grabbing their attention again, “This whole thing is just so complicated, a-and risky…” You dip your head, staring at your shoes.

“Ugh, _tell_ me about it,” Undyne says, flinging her arms out dramatically and flopping further down into the chair. Then she grins. “But that’s what makes it fun!”

You’re suddenly struck by the realization that Undyne may be thinking of something other than the problems you’ve been considering. You search your memory and come up with at least two other instances where clues to possible hidden issues popped up in this conversation and you missed them. _Oh, shit. What else is there to worry about?_ “You guys,” you start, hoping this doesn’t sound too weird or ignorant, “Are we talking about the same problems?”

“I-I think so,” Alphys says. “But now that you mention it…” And then she gasps. “Oh! Oh! You d-don’t have skeletons on the surface! Y-you wouldn’t know about their… _special considerations.”_ Alphys starts to turn red.

Undyne is staring at you, her single yellow eye wide and disbelieving. “Are you fucking kidding me? We have to have the skeleton talk?” She starts laughing, and then just as suddenly sobers up. “Oh, shit, (Y/N)…”

You’re definitely feeling alarmed now. “What?”

Furiously flushed, Alphys says, “W-well, y-you know that skeletons can’t… um… c-can’t reproduce physically, right?”

“I DON’T WANNA HAVE THIS TALK ABOUT SOMEONE I KNOW!” Undyne wails, and then buries her face in the plush chair arm. Muffled noises that are suspiciously snigger-like issue from her a moment later.

“Wait, you mean, like, not at all? Th-then where did Sans and Papyrus come from?” Belatedly you register the peculiar detail that Alphys specified _physically._

“You’re kidding, right? Soulbonding, yo!” Undyne exclaims, as if this explains everything.

“What’s soulbonding?”

Alphys and Undyne both gasp. Alphys claps her hands to her mouth in shock. “O-oh, no, wait…”

Undyne shrieks, “Do they not have sex ed on the surface?!”

“D-do humans n-not, um, you know…”

“WHAT?!” You’re starting to panic. _“What is it?!”_

“(Y/N),” Undyne starts, looking at you like you’re an idiot, “You’ve had relationships before, right?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“You know when you’re gettin’ all hot and heavy and your chest starts to glow?”

“Uhh… nnnnnooo. No, that doesn’t happen to humans.” But it _did_ happen to Sans. You blush harder, remembering how he’d tried to hide it from you the first time you'd seen it, and how nosy you’d been.

Undyne lets out a furious shout. “NGAAAAH!” Then her expression changes, and suddenly she looks like she might cry. _“You can’t soulbond?”_ she asks, as if it’s the saddest thing she’s ever heard.

_“What is soulbonding?”_ you demand, getting more frustrated by the second.

Alphys takes a deep breath, steadying herself and possibly gathering her courage. “W-well, wh-when two monsters l-love each other…” Undyne starts a strange cycle of complaints and giggles that you attempt to ignore. “… th-their souls start to r-resonate.”

“What’s that mean?” you ask. Your voice is almost a whisper.

“Th-their souls draw closer to each other’s wavelength, and wh-when they match wavelengths, th-they start to g-glow brightly. S-sometimes th-they hum, too, if they’re really excited.”

You’re slowly forgetting your embarrassment and anxiety, caught up in learning something new and fascinating.

“Wh-when a pair decides to s-soulbond, th-they… um… s-stimulate each other…” Undyne snorts laughter. Alphys blushes harder, but otherwise ignores her. “…u-until the sh-shine is really b-bright, a-and then, um, th-they p-press their chests together, and, um, th-their souls m-merge. Um. Temporarily.”

“This is makin’ me so hot,” Undyne says, still giggling, and you can’t tell if she’s kidding or not. You suspect not.

“Th-the souls mark each other, and from then on the bonded pair can sense each other’s presence or absence, and feel each other’s feelings sometimes, a-and, w-well, it’s…” Alphys and Undyne share a look so sappy it makes you wonder if true love is worth such embarrassing displays.

“… incredible,” Undyne finishes, oozing adoration. Then she ruins the moment by saying, “Plus it’s _soooo good_ that normal sex becomes a footnote. Babe, are we almost done here?”

“I’m not going to have soul sex with you in Toriel’s house,” Alphys responds primly.

“Aww.” Undyne pouts.

“S-so now for the caveats,” Alphys says, looking you in the eyes very seriously. “Y-you can’t take back a soulbond once you’ve shared one. Y-you’re soulmates for life. Another bond is possible after the death of your partner, if you survive it, but most monsters never choose another soulmate. A-and it’ll change your life. You’ll go from wanting each other to _needing_ each other. M-monsters have been known to sicken and even d-die if they’re separated from their soulmates for too long. It’s not uncommon for a bonded pair to die within a couple weeks of each other, and though many monsters survive the death of their soulmate, some of them are never the same. So when you soulbond, you take your life in your hands, as well as the life of your partner.”

You swear softly. This discussion has become a lot more serious than you’d originally expected.

“Th-this also means th-that you have to make the right choice of p-partner. L-like I said before, soulmates have a need to k-keep each other close and can f-feel each other’s feelings sometimes. Usually, this ensures a happy union. B-but there are the rare horror stories of m-miserable bonds, even _abusive_ bonds, which n-neither mate can escape b-because of the bond’s very nature. J-just because you can sense each other’s feelings d-doesn’t guarantee you’ll understand them, or agree that they’re valid.”

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, feeling oddly awestruck. It’s starting to sound like loving a monster is both a serious and potentially dangerous business. Human marriages, even with all their risks and troubles, are looking pretty appealing right about now.

“F-finally, th-there’s no protection against soul pregnancy,” Alphys concludes.

_“Soul pregnancy?”_ you echo, shocked.

“Oh, um, y-yes, soulbonding can get you pregnant. I-in your soul. It’s, um, i-it’s a whole other thing that would take a long time to explain, b-but when we’re done with what we’re talking about now, I can try to explain it, i-if you want.”

You’re feeling a little overwhelmed with information at the moment. “I’ll think about it,” you say.

“O-okay. S-so, you might get pregnant, a-and there’s no way to make that less likely.”

“There’s one way,” Undyne mutters, sounding sulky.

“Oh, y-yes, s-sorry,” Alphys stammers, backtracking a bit. “Female souls are much more receptive and male souls are much more transmissive, so male-male and female-female pairs often have trouble g-getting, um, h-having children.”

“Huh.” You think about that, interested. “But it’s possible for same-sex pairs to have biological kids, then?”

“Y-yes, it’s even likely, i-if the pair… um… d-does it often enough. B-but it can take years, even decades, for one of them to conceive. Some pairs never manage it.”

“Wow,” you say quietly. Monsters are so… so _different._ It’s fascinating.

“Me and Alphys have been soulbonded for, like, two years, and not a _hint_ of baby-love in _all that time!_ And we do the soul salsa, like, _every night!”_

“She does _not_ need to know that!” Alphys hisses. Then she and Undyne share a giggling fit.

“Soul salsa?” You cock an amused eyebrow at them.

“Better than the table tango!” Undyne crows, laughing.

Alphys squeaks. “Sh-she _definitely_ doesn’t need to know about _that!”_

You laugh with them. Then you remember what started this conversation. “Wait, so… we were talking about skeletons?”

The girls sober. “O-oh, yes, th-that’s right,” Alphys says. “Skeletons c-can’t reproduce physically, s-so their souls are correspondingly m-more, um, more volatile. I-I mean, it takes less to get them, u-um, s-stimulated, a-and several bonds have happened b-by… by accident.” Alphys blushes brightly and examines her feet. “Skeletons are the rarest monsters b-because dating one is, um, is r-risky.”

“You gotta be willing to go all out!” Undyne says enthusiastically. “It takes a lot of guts!” She sounds impressed with the idea. You’re not sure what you’d think if you could soulbond. Liking Sans so, so much is one thing. But being willing to risk a drastic, permanent change in your life after only a month of knowing him?

You don’t know what you’d decide.

But since humans don’t soulbond, you suppose it doesn’t matter.

Crushing disappointment takes you by surprise, making you slump as if a physical weight has been placed on your shoulders.

You can’t soulbond.

Sans can’t… you know.

There’s no future for the two of you.

“H-hey, d-don’t look like that,” Alphys says worriedly, noticing your lowered spirits.

“Sorry,” you respond quietly. “I’m just wondering where to go from here. You know, Sans and I can’t… whatever, you know what? This calls for a drink.”

Undyne jumps up from her chair with a shouted, “Hell yeah!” and goes running out the door, leaving you stunned in her wake. How does Alphys cope with this woman? She’s insane. A couple seconds later, Undyne returns with an almost-full bottle of Grand Marnier and three glasses. Not snifters. Regular drinking glasses. She pours you an embarrassingly large amount of liquor and presses it into your hand, then starts pouring one for Alphys.

“Oh, hey, GrandMa,” you say, a little happier. “Nice.”

Alphys takes a small sip of hers and coughs. Undyne thumps her on the back. “S-so,” Alphys starts, looking sly, “W-what do you like about him?”

* * * * *

Several hours later, the three of you stagger from the study, so drunk you can hardly walk and giggling like giddy school girls.

“And then his eye goes all blue and smoky, you know, like it does sometimes…”

“When he uses his magic,” Alphys points out, slurring just a little.

“Oh, yeaaah, and it was _so…”_ You were going to say “hot,” but Sans is here, and he spots you, smiles widely, and starts coming over, so you shout, “BLUE! ‘CAUSE THAT’S WHAT IT WAS!” Sans reaches you and usurps your arm from Undyne, allowing you to lean on him instead.

“wow. what did they give you, and is there any left?” You giggle and clutch at him.

“Ohh, Sans, you’re such a funny Sans, Sans.” Undyne hears this and cracks up so hard she falls over. Alphys tries to catch her, and the both of them end up on the floor in a laughing heap.

Sans draws you away from them. “phew, you smell like jet fuel.” He chuckles. “let’s get some water into you.” He leads you to the kitchen.

Behind you, Undyne shouts, “Bye, Sans-Sans!”

Sans takes you to the sink and gets you a large glass of water. “drink it,” he orders, and you do. Then he gets you another one. When you manage to down that as well, he gets you a third. By now you’re sipping rather than guzzling, and your head feels a little clearer. You’re finally able to recognize that drinking so much GrandMa may have been a mistake.

Sans props you against the counter and then leans on it next to you, still holding your arm in case you fall over. You sip your water. Then you rest your head against his shoulder. “have a nice girl talk?” he murmurs. He sounds amused.

“Yeah,” you respond. “Mmmaybeee there was a little too much liquor involved.”

Sans chuckles. “i can see that.” Then, “oh, hey.” He nudges you and points at the clock on the opposite wall. It’s less than a minute to midnight.

“I missed the whole party!” you moan, dismayed.

“aah, don’t worry, there’ll be other parties,” Sans says. “plus, the night’s not over. this thing’ll go on ‘till sunrise. and you had fun, right?” You nod. “good. drink your water.” You obediently take a sip. Sans is watching the clock with a strange intensity. The kitchen is empty aside from the two of you; you figure everyone else is probably crammed into the enormous living room, champagne glasses at the ready, keeping vigil through the final minute of the old year.

At ten seconds to midnight you’re proven right. You can hear the countdown starting in the distance as their voices rise, “Ten! Nine!”

You turn to Sans. He’s staring at the clock and counting along under his breath. He looks so intent, as if he’s moving the second hand himself by sheer willpower. “Sans?” He turns to look at you. “You know about the New Year’s kiss tradition, right?”

In the background, the countdown continues. “Four! Three!”

“uuh, y-… uh… i know about it, bu-“

As “Happy New Year!” echoes in the background, you lean in and, softly, you kiss him. He’s still for a second, and then you feel his pseudo-flesh “lips” begin to move with yours, waves of soft magic and hard bone alternating against your mouth. His fingers touch your cheek. They’re trembling. You feel something deep inside you start to sing. Then Sans’s hand slides from your face and alights on your shoulder. Gently, he moves you away from him. “you’re drunk,” he murmurs as you slide your eyes open to look at him. His breathing is a little shaky, his pupils large and bright.

“You’re a really great kisser,” you tell him.

His face seems to struggle for a second before a smirk slowly rises to its surface. He fights it back down.

“Don’t be smug,” you scold amusedly.

Sans chuckles. “drink your water.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~ Author’s Note ~**
> 
> I love how well Undyne and Alphys work together. At first I was unsure of how to present their relationship: a lot of times, a strong personality like Undyne’s can overwhelm a weak one like Alphys’s, making the relationship unbalanced, with one side always getting their way while the other never even speaks up about what they want. This can cause eventual resentment on one side while the other is totally happy, so when the weak half of the pair finally loses their cool, the strong half is completely blindsided. I decided to cover these bases by imagining that being with Undyne, who obviously adores her for exactly who she is, has given Alphys the confidence she needs to express herself.
> 
> This chapter ran really long. There was no good place to stop.


	20. Rock the House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you are ferocious.

_ Sans _

 

I spend the next hour or so in a daze.

_She kissed me._

_I kissed her back._

_She was drunk. It’s tradition. It didn’t mean anything._

_… It meant something to me._

My mouth is still tingling, and every time my attention lapses, my memory brings me a recap of the softness of her lips, the warmth of her breath, the hot sweet feeling that rose up in me, a feeling so swift and sharp it was almost pain. Almost.

I want to kiss her again. God, I’ve never wanted anything so bad in my life.

She was drunk.

It’s tradition.

I feel like I’m suffocating.

I escort Checkers around the house, watching her throw herself into having fun. I wasn’t kidding when I said this thing would go on all night, and it looks like Checkers has basically decided to rock the house. Undyne and Alphys spend a lot of time around us. Looks like she made some friends there. I’m glad. …Though they keep trying to give her more liquor. I’ve gotta keep my eye on the three of them and switch out the alcohol for water whenever they hand her a glass. I’m starting to add plates of food and cups of coffee into the mix, and it’s working pretty well. Checkers is still plastered, but at least she’s functional again, thank god. I am _not_ going to take advantage of my drunk friend, but if she doesn’t stop flirting with me, I can’t guarantee I won’t explode.

Tori’s got an honest-to-god dance floor set up in one of the living areas, and Checkers keeps going back to it.

She wants me to dance with her.

No way in hell.

“i don’t dance,” I tell her for the umpteenth time as she tries to drag me towards the dance floor.

“Aww, come on, _everybody_ dances,” Checkers says. I notice she’s sobering up little by little. That’s a relief. Even if it comes with the side effect that she’s gotta go to the bathroom every half hour. And also that she’s more able to argue with me about this.

“not everyone dances _in public,_ ” I tell her.

“If you don’t come dance with me, I’ll just dance around you right here,” she says, and backs up to me, leaning backwards into my body and shimmying her hips. That little skirt swings back and forth, and, fuck, I just wanna…

Refusing to finish that thought, I take her by the waist and spin her around to face me. Then I take one of her hands in one of mine, lead her other to the top of my humerus near my shoulder joint, and rest my own hand high on her back, over her shoulder blade. I move her through a few foxtrot steps, which she fumbles with before falling into her rhythm. She obviously doesn’t know the dance, but she’s a dream to lead, responding to my slight nudges with fluid grace. I drop the dance after a few seconds. I feel like people are staring. Then I turn around and find out I’m right (Undyne and Alphys, in particular, are gawking at us like they’re in some kind of bizarre ecstasy) and I feel my face heating up. I turn back to Checkers, wishing I had my comfy old jacket so I could hide in the hood.

“I thought you couldn’t dance,” Checkers says breathlessly, grinning and wide-eyed.

“i said i _don’t_ dance. never said i _couldn’t._ ” Gotta be honest, now I’m feelin’ a little smug.

“Well, do more of it,” she demands, and puts her hand back on my arm, pulling my other hand up in hers again.

“oh, jeez, checkers…” I try to protest.

Checkers’s face falls in disappointment. It’s the first pout I’ve ever seen from her. I tell myself it’s because of the liquor. Still, it hurts me to see her upset, especially knowing I caused it.

She gives me. Freaking. Puppy dog eyes.

I mutter something that Paps would call me a grump for, and put my hand back on her shoulder blade.

“just this once,” I say. “and try not to… uh…” My face goes from warm to hot. “try not to do that… hip thing… again.”

Checkers laughs. “You mean this?” And she undulates against me in a way that makes my body temperature skyrocket.

“c-cut it out!” I say, a humiliating note of panic in my voice.

Checkers stops immediately and backs up a pace. “S-sorry,” she says in dismay. “I-I didn’t mean to… make you uncomfortable, or…”

“aw, no, i-it’s not like that,” I stammer, willing my soul to chill out before it shines through the dress shirt like a freakin’ beacon. “i just… like, need a little breathing room here, that’s all.”

“Okay,” she says, and puts her hands back into position, looking serious and excited at the same time. Oh my gosh, she’s adorable. My soul gives a rebellious throb. I clamp down on my thoughts, and it subsides a little. Thank god.

“so, okay, the basic step is…”

And I start teaching her the foxtrot.

She picks it up really fast. Or maybe she’s just picking up on my lead that well. As we go along, I start coaxing her body into some direction changes and we even manage a couple little twirls. She follows along with almost no effort on my part. It feels like we’re perfectly in synch.

Checkers is smiling at me. Her whole face is just radiating happiness. She’s obviously having the time of her life, and that’s enough to make me aware of a faint tingle in my ribcage, a dull shadow of a nearly-forgotten feeling.

I’m having fun.

It’s not that “Oh, this is entertaining” kind of feeling I get when I play video games or tease people, or the silly goofy feeling I get from things like the pancake war or our adventure in the fruit aisle. This is pure enjoyment in what I’m doing. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I’m completely in the moment, and for now, I feel almost… happy.

The song ends, and I give Checkers a little twirl and a dip. She laughs as I pull her back up. I can feel my own grin stretching wide as our eyes meet.

Then the applause starts.

Shit! I forgot we had an audience! “Way to go, Sans-Sans!” Undyne shouts from somewhere in the crowd. My shoulders try and crawl up to my ears as I pull my head down, like I might be able to hide in the collar of my dress shirt. Checkers not-so-subtly steps in front of me, and then smiles and curtsies. I feel a rush of relief as the pressure of so many gazes shifts to her, giving me the space I need to pull myself together. I know she drew the attention away from me on purpose. I’ll have to remember to thank her later.

Paps swoops out of the crowd on the dance floor and picks Checkers up in a hug. “OH, SISTER!” he gushes. “THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL! OUR BROTHER HAS NOT DANCED SINCE BEFORE THE BARRIER WAS BROKEN!” Paps, _why?_ Why can’t you stop speaking a sentence earlier? It would make my life so much easier.

“Really?” Checkers looks at me questioningly. I can’t speak: I’m too embarrassed. I grab her hand instead.

“can we get outta here?” I mutter. She nods, and we head out the front door, onto the landscaped path leading to the entryway.

I realize this was a mistake as soon as we leave the house.

Catcalls erupt from the area beyond the front gate, and a round of chanting starts up. A small crowd of protesters are lined up on the other side of Tori’s fence.

Checkers stops in her tracks. Her face pales.

What are they doing here in the middle of the night on a holiday? They must either be a much larger group with some 24-7 arrangement, working in shifts ’n’ junk, or they saw it was a party and decided to crash it. Since this is a high-profile important monster leader residence, I’m betting on the former. Jeez, poor Tori. Aah, well, she probably takes it with a grain of salt. One of the benefits of being a classy lady.

Checkers is still staring out at them. The fence doesn’t go all the way to the sidewalk, and they’ve come onto the grass in their attempts to get as close as possible to their “enemies.” I’m sorta reminded of zombie movies.

Someone sees that Checkers is human and shouts that she’s a monster-lover. Others take up the theme. Shouts of “Traitor!” and “Whore!” batter at her. I tug on her hand, and she turns her face to me. Her expression is blank with shock.

“let’s go back in,” I urge. “this was a bad idea.”

“Go back to hell, ya filthy hole-dweller!” Shouts of agreement rise at this, and the crowd turns its attention to me. I tug on Checkers’s hand again. She shouldn’t have to deal with this.

She stays where she is. Her expression is slowly shifting from shock to anger.

Someone calls me an abomination. Someone else calls Checkers a necrophiliac. Come on, people, do I look dead to you? A middle-aged lady who looks like a soccer mom shouts that I don’t belong here. Gotta admit that one stings a little. It stings ‘cause she might be right. Somebody lobs a rock at my head. I dodge it easily, carelessly. Wasted effort, whoever you are. Wasted effort.

Then I realize I’m kinda wrong: that rock _did_ have an effect.

Something in Checkers snaps.

“GET FUCKED!!!” she roars, and snatching a handful of stones from a bed of bushes lined with smooth pebbles, she starts flinging them into the crowd with furious force.

The shouted insults give way quickly to “ow!” and “shit!” Checkers runs towards the fence, towards the crowd, scooping up more stones and hurling imprecations along with them.

“Filthy, huh?! Hole-dweller?! _You’re_ the ones who crawled out from under a rock! Why don’t you crawl back home, huh?!” she shouts at the woman who told me I don’t belong here. She viciously chucks a pebble at the lady, who flinches and covers her face. “You’re a fuckin’ eyesore! And all y’all are retarded as hell!” I laugh a little in shock. Checkers’s accent is becoming more… uh… rustic… as she gets more out-of-control. “You’re only here ‘cause Toriel’s too nice to call the cops on your asses! Or haven’t you noticed you’re on private property?! And don’t you have better things to do on New Year’s Eve than harass honest folks?! GET!!! A!!! LIFE!!!” With each word, Checkers throws a stone. By now the crowd is basically nonexistent: people have been retreating in twos and threes since the barrage started, some of them tight-lipped and angry and as dignified as possible under the circumstances, others shocked and oddly fearful, a few a little shamefaced. Looks like none of them were expecting anyone to fight back. Makes sense: Tori and Asgore probably ignore them. I wonder how Undyne failed to tear them apart. Maybe the Winnebago is parked in the back. Maybe she didn’t see them.

Checkers scoops up another handful of rocks, pauses to look at it for a moment, and plucks something out of it. “HERE!!!” she screeches. “HERE’S A PENNY!!! GO BUY YOURSELF SOME DECENCY!!!” She flings the coin at the only person left. It ricochets off his face. I wince: it almost put his eye out. He slaps his hand to the smitten spot and glares daggers at Checkers. He opens his mouth, probably to shout something back at her.

She picks up a softball-sized accent rock with “Serenity” carved into it and cocks her arm to throw it.

The guy takes off running.

I burst into laughter. Checkers turns to me, dropping the rock, looking embarrassed. The stone hits the paved sidewalk with a harsh cracking sound.

“that,” I snigger, “was awesome.”

Tears well up in her eyes. Alarmed, I reach for her. “hey, are you okay?”

“You _do_ belong here,” she says furiously, dashing the tears away. “You have just as much right to be here as they do!” Then she laughs a little. “More, because you were invited here!” We share a chuckle. I pull her into my arms, and she presses her face into the hollow behind my clavicle. I rub her back.

“that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I say. I can still hear a smile in my voice. I’m not kidding, though: as ridiculous as the whole thing was, I’m deeply touched.

“I didn’t convince anybody,” she says miserably, clinging to me. “I behaved worse than they did, and now all they’ll take away from this is that people with monster friends are crazy and violent.”

I laugh and kiss her on the side of the head. “violently loyal and crazy beautiful,” I say. She giggles and turns her face to me, resting her cheek on my shoulder.

“You really think I’m beautiful?” For some reason, I didn’t feel awkward when I said it. Now delayed embarrassment comes creeping in. That was definitely flirting. I flirted with her, and she flirted back.

She’s drunk.

Don’t want to take it too far.

But I don’t want to take it back, either.

“you’re gorgeous,” I say simply, and hope she can’t see my blush in the dim light from the garden lamps. “now let’s go inside before you kill someone.” She laughs, and together we rejoin the light and noise of a party in full swing.

* * * * *

Two more dances, several plates of appetizers, and waaaay too much Mettaton later, Checkers starts to feel a little sick, and lets me take her home. Paps wants to spend the night at Tori’s with pretty much everyone else, so I plan to pick him up tomorrow.

I mean to drop Checkers off at her bedroom door, but as we pass the stairs she says “Noooo…” with that little drunky-Checkers whine in her voice, and tugs at my arm until I go upstairs with her. And into my room.

And into my bed.

As I gingerly pull the covers up around us, she sighs happily and curls up against me. She falls asleep almost immediately.

I spend the rest of the night evaluating my life choices.

 

_ You _

 

Ohh, no. Not again.

Through an intermittent but extraordinarily painful headache and mild surges of nausea, you struggle to piece the night back together.

Girl talk with Undyne and Alphys. Hard liquor, the sweet stuff, absolutely the worst when it comes to hangovers. Chucking rocks at strangers? No, surely that part was a dream. … Wasn’t it?

Dancing with Sans.

Kissing him.

He, uh… he kissed you back.

You blush and bury your face in the pillow. Does that mean he likes you, too? Or was he as drunk as you were? Ohh, man, you need to get to the bathroom. Urgently.

You scramble out of bed and end up sprawled on a carpet that’s not yours. You’re in Sans’s room. You were in Sans’s bed.

With Sans.

As your eyes flicker over the lump under the blanket, a bony arm reaches out from the plush pile and gropes around. It grabs the pillow, clutches it, and the rest of the Sans-lump curls around it, issuing a cranky whine. You giggle. Then you slap a hand to your mouth and hustle to the bathroom.

You’re cleaning up after your… purgation… when you’re disturbed by a knock at the door. “Uh-hmm?” you manage past your toothbrush.

“you okay in there?” Oh, god, it’s the sexy Sans morning voice. Good thing you feel about as far from romantic as it’s possible to get.

“Mm-hmm.” You spit and rinse. “As okay as you’d expect after a night like that,” you qualify. You open the medicine cabinet and pull out some Ibuprofen. At the thought of swallowing a pill, your stomach roils again. You take a couple deep breaths to calm it down. There’s no sense in taking anything yet if you’re going to throw it back up.

“d’you need anythin’?” You picture him on the other side of the door, rumpled and dazed, but out of bed because you’re sick, because he cares about you. You stop yourself from answering, “You.”

“Water. Ibuprofen. More bed. Got it covered,” you reply.

“mmkay.” You hear him shuffle away. You treasure it, because he so rarely makes noise when he moves; he’s so vulnerable and almost childlike before he’s fully awake.

He rolls over in bed to look at you in surprise when you walk into his room a minute later. “You’re closer to the bathroom,” you excuse yourself, and crawl back into bed with him. But that’s not the whole truth. You feel terrible, and being in bed with Sans is warm and comforting, and his glorious masculine stormy smell makes you feel instantly better, as if it’s cleansing you from the inside out.

“i _am_ closer to the bathroom,” he says, and puts his arm around you. You snuggle into him. His hold on you tightens and you feel his chest heave as he sighs. You sigh yourself and drape an arm over his ribcage.

“Sans?”

“mm?”

“Were you drinking last night?”

“a little. not much. ’s not usually how i party.”

He danced with you.

He kissed you.

He wasn’t drunk.

You were. _But next time,_ you think to yourself with a small smile, _I won’t be._

You hold him a little closer and you feel his fingers start to comb through your hair as you drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~ Author's Note ~**
> 
> Aah, moving. You always have about twenty times the amount of stuff you think you do. It makes you feel both blessed to have so much bounty, and at the same time, furious with yourself for accumulating so much junk. And now you have to move it all. Life is so unfair. Why, oh, why can’t I have super-speed?
> 
> When you’ve spent every non-working moment for the past month packing, when your hands are sore and swollen from hours of hauling milk crates full of books, when you can’t remember the last time you sat down because you _wanted_ to instead of because you _needed_ to, and you look around and see that, after all that work, you’ve packed away less than half your stuff, there comes a point when you realize:
> 
> “This is the dumb way of doing things.”
> 
> “I should just set it all on fire.”


	21. By the Back Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which certain things come to a head.

_You_

You rub your eyes wearily as you deliver the last of the dirty dishes to Harriet to wash. Harriet thanks you and reaches for them, and you surprise both her and yourself by dropping them before she’s ready. They slip between her hands and splash into the sink. Thankfully, nothing is broken. You groan and apologize.

You’ve dropped a lot of things today.

That’s what happens when you can’t get any sleep.

You spent a couple days in Sans’s bed, and now you can’t seem to get comfortable in yours. Well, you suppose you’ll get used to sleeping alone again eventually. You just have to tough out this… whatever it is, and soon things will be back to normal.

You glance at the clock and heave a sigh of relief: it’s time to lock the doors. You pull your key out of your pocket – every employee has keys to the front and back doors – and head out of the kitchen, to the front door of the café. As you turn the key, sliding the bolt into place, you catch movement out of the corner of your eye. A shadow detaches itself from the alleyway opposite you and raises a hand in a lazy wave. Little points of white light gleam at you through the darkness. You wave back, smiling. Sans has been walking you home since New Year’s Eve. Your heart speeds up a little and your body warms at the knowledge that he’s out there waiting for you. Just like yesterday, and the day before. The fatigue you’ve been fighting vanishes and you’re left with simple, happy anticipation. You’re looking forward to seeing him, talking to him.

When did your days start feeling incomplete without Sans in them?

“How’re things looking out there?” Harriet asks, coming up behind you, wiping her hands dry.

“Pretty good. I’ll mop the floor and then we’re done.”

“Cool. I’m gonna clock out, then,” Harriet tells you.

“Sure,” you respond, grabbing the mop bucket and Mr. Clean out of the broom closet. With a final wave, Harriet unlocks the front door, walks out, and then locks it again behind her. You glance out the window. Sans is nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t seem comfortable with your coworkers knowing he’s hanging around and avoids them when possible. After the New Year’s fiasco with the protesters, there was another monster-human altercation in the news. This time magic was involved, and of course the media latched onto that like a pack of wolves on a lame deer. It really drove home the fact that monsters have an undeniable edge in a fight. Your friends, especially Papyrus, were coming to be known and liked in this little community, but any progress they made in the past couple of months has been completely undone by this latest scare. You’ve noticed more anxious and angry glances directed at them day by day, and you have to struggle to avoid becoming anxious and angry in response. People are seeing monsters as a threat, a danger to themselves and their families.

Sans has responded to this by staying out of view as much as possible.

You think he’s worried about causing you trouble.

The thought hurts your heart.

You unlock the door and open it. A bitter January wind bites at you. “Sans?” you call into the night.

“‘sup?” he greets you, materializing silently out of the darkness, all comfortable slouch and easy, crooked grin.

“You wanna come in and hang around while I mop?”

“sure.” You let him in and lock the door behind him. As soon as he’s within talking distance, something tight in you eases. You smile widely at him, feeling a little goofy. His smile is an echo of yours. He hefts himself up onto a table, sitting on it and swinging his legs a little. As you slap the wet mop onto the floor, he starts, “so, how was your day?”

* * * * *

It takes you about half an hour to finish the mopping, and then you let Sans out the front door and lock it behind him. You’ll rinse the mop and bucket, put away the supplies, and leave by the back door. It’ll only take you a couple minutes, and then the two of you can head home together.

The two of you. Your mood droops a little.

You haven’t made any attempts to expand your relationship yet. At first, it didn’t seem like the right time, and now… well, it pains you to admit it, but you’ve lost your momentum. You’re back to wondering how Sans feels, fearing that kiss was a fluke, or maybe he didn’t know how to reject you without hurting your feelings, and if he _does_ like you back, why hasn’t he made a move yet? You’re desperate to know how he feels, but he persists in giving you _nothing._ Or, to be more accurate, it’s mixed signals all over the place. As soon as you think he’s given you a clue to his feelings, he turns around and gives you another that seems to lead in the exact opposite direction.

You don’t know how long you can stand this. It’s exhausting.

But there’s no denying that being around Sans makes you happy. More than that, you feel… _more_ when you’re with him. Like a part of you has returned, though you didn’t miss it while it was gone.

That has to be worth the pain of uncertainty. Doesn’t it?

The back of the café is pretty dark: you’ve already turned the lights out, and all the illumination now comes from the dim “emergency” lighting which is left on at all times. As far as you know, there’s never been an emergency at your workplace, but the lighting is certainly handy for preventing bumps and bruises. It’s too bad it can’t keep you from hurting on the inside.

You’re starting to wonder if maybe Sans finds you attractive but just doesn’t want a relationship with you. Your mood sinks a bit lower. _Why doesn’t he want me? Oh, don’t ask that question yet! You don’t even know for sure if he thinks you’re cute!_

You’re emptying the mop bucket into the utility sink in the back room when you finally sense the presence behind you. By the time you start to turn, it’s too late.

A strong arm wraps around you, pinning your arms to your sides, clutching you against a muscular chest, and as you draw in a startled gasp, your assailant’s other hand shoves a wad of cloth into your mouth. There’s so much cloth, and he shoves it so deeply, that you choke and gag. It takes you a moment to realize it’s a dishtowel. You thrash in panic, struggling for breath as the towel expands in your throat, pressing against your airway. Your efforts to free yourself require extra air which you don’t have access to, and your struggling dies down a bit as your head starts to spin. You breathe roughly through your nose, heart and lungs laboring, as Rob’s voice hisses into your ear.

“Ssshhhh. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You start thrashing around again, and manage to tap the mop bucket with your toe. It rocks back and forth for a moment, and you hope wildly that it will fall off the sink and make a noise loud enough to be heard from outside, but instead of falling, it stabilizes. Rob drags you away from the sink, to the middle of the floor.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, alright? It’s okay,” he coos, petting you as if you’re a frightened animal. Between the need for oxygen and your mounting terror, you certainly feel like one. A moment later, he puts the lie to his words by shoving his free hand down your shirt collar, groping your breast. “You think that monster can give you what _I_ can? Once you’ve had a real man, you’ll know…” You lash outwards with your feet, hoping to unbalance him, working your tongue as much as you can, trying unsuccessfully to push the gag out. Rob staggers forward for a moment before regaining his balance. “I said fucking _stop!”_ he hisses furiously, and flings you to the ground. Your head bangs off the corner of the prep counter, and suddenly you’re awash in blinding pain. Your gorge rises. You fight it back down, breathing as deeply through your nose as you can, fearful of what might happen if you throw up while gagged like this. The room spins lazily as Rob’s soft, sweaty hands drag your jeans past your hips. You try to lift your legs and kick at him, but the jeans wrapped around your knees foul you up and Rob uses your motion to strip them down to your ankles. You sit up, swinging an arm at him, but the room lurches and so does your stomach, and he grabs your flailing hand and flops on top of you, pinning you to the ground with his body. He settles between your legs, and the hardness you feel through the cloth of his pants sends a rush of terrified energy through you. Rob leans over you, whispering what he obviously thinks are sweet nothings. You brace your back and shoulders against the ground, creating leverage, and then desperately snap your head forward. Your forehead collides with Rob’s mouth like a bony battering ram. Sharp, tearing pain makes your eyes water as Rob rears back onto his knees with an enraged roar, blood spattering from his ruined lips. Teeth hit the floor with a couple of tiny clatters. He clasps a hand to his mouth, breathing as roughly through his fingers as you are past your gag. You feel a trickle of your own blood, hot and viscous, tracing the contour of your eyebrow and running down the side of your nose. Through the pain, the nausea, and the awful horror, you give him a satisfied glare, sending the thought _“Eat shit”_ his way with all the force you can muster. Apparently he gets the message, because his face twists in black fury.

“You little cunt!” he snarls, as you reach for the gag in your mouth, and suddenly the swinging doors burst inward. Then all hell breaks loose.

Afterwards, you’d find it difficult to piece together what happened. It’s all so fast: Rob is ripped away from you, into the air, and amid flashes of blue light he’s flung around the room, colliding with the floor, the ceiling, the walls. Things clatter from the prep counter onto the floor as Rob sweeps across it, hitting the cinderblock wall with a thud that contains a disturbing undertone of sickening crackles. You jerk the towel out of your mouth, pulling in a ragged gasp of fresh air, and struggle to stand. Your legs are still tangled in your jeans and you fall to the ground again. You reach down, fumbling, to pull your pants up, as Rob crashes to the floor again, limp as a rag doll. His glazed eyes meet yours. He wheezes and reaches weakly for your hand, blood oozing from his mangled mouth. You recoil in disgust. Then a black hole opens in the world behind him as a deep, hollow voice issues from the shadows.

 **“pick on someone your own size.”** A single blue orb hovers in the darkness near the swinging doors, ghostly flames flickering around it. You struggle to understand what you’re seeing.

As Rob turns weakly to look behind him, his body begins to slide across the floor slowly, towards the waiting tear in space, and with a sudden chill, you know: there’s no exit. The black void gapes like a hungry mouth and you know instinctively that Rob won’t be coming back out.

A small figure steps into the light, one eye socket a black, empty pit, the other flaring with blue light streaming out into the air like fire. **“wanna hear a joke? a little prick walks into a bar…”** A towel rack rips itself away from the wall and careens into Rob’s head. He cries out as the rack bounces off him. **“well, *i* thought it was funny. maybe if i tell it again…”**

“NO!” Rob shrieks, spraying blood from his mouth. He scrabbles at the floor as he’s dragged inexorably backwards towards the waiting emptiness. A fingernail rips away from his hand and he leaves a streak of blood on the linoleum. “Please!!!” He’s crying.

“Sans!” you yell, staggering to your feet. You throw yourself at the skeleton and wrap your arms around him. “Stop! I’m okay! Please, please stop!” Though you would have welcomed Rob’s death a moment ago, you find you can’t watch a helpless person die right in front of you. He’s crying, and begging, and you just can’t let him be killed. Not like this.

Sans looks at you, and the blue fire in his eye socket fades out, replaced slowly by the familiar white pupils. A desperate concern that’s almost fear touches his face for a moment as he looks at you, before he hides it under an expression of casual malice. “checkers, christ, i’m just making a point.” With an unnecessary, somewhat dramatic motion of his hand, he zips up the hole in space as if it was a suitcase. He looks at Rob while he does it, a wide, wicked grin spreading across his face. Rob coughs, spreading another spatter of blood drops across the floor, and makes a high-pitched whine, burying his face pathetically in the crook of his arm. An acrid smell fills the air as a damp spot widens along his crotch. “now you’ve got two options,” Sans says easily, as if the previous moments never happened, as if he didn’t just literally beat the piss out of a man more than twice his size. “you can turn yourself in, admit what you did, and take what’s coming to you. and, oh yeah, you leave me out of the story entirely…”

“What’ll I tell them happened to me?” Rob rasps from his hiding place in the crook of his arm. The words are slurred and garbled, distorted from passing through his swelling mouth. Despite his injuries and obvious terror, there's a sullenness to his voice, as if he can't believe things have gone so wrong.

Sans shrugs. “doesn’t matter. tell ‘em you fell off the stupid train on your way through uglytown. whatever. doesn’t have to be a great story. just has to not include me. makes my life that much easier. but see, that’s just option one. option two: you make the most of what little time you have left.” Rob flinches and whimpers. Sans continues. “see, they can’t catch me, and they certainly can’t keep me in prison, and magic is untraceable, and i oughta tell ya anyway that i’ll be watching you, and if i don’t think your punishment is fair, well… can’t start a murder investigation without a body.” Rob lets out a strangled sob. “look, pal. i never wanna see you again, ya know? i don’t even wanna see you walking down the street. so…” Sans finishes, and you’ve never seen a casual, friendly grin look so sinister, “once you’ve served your time, you gotta make yourself disappear. ‘cause if you don’t, **i will.”**

Rob’s broken sobbing assaults your ears. The room tilts sideways. You feel Sans’s hoodie slipping away from your numbing fingers, hear his voice as he turns to you, his hands as they wrap around your back, slowing your downward slide.

“checkers?!”

* * * * *

When you open your eyes again, you’re staring at a bright white paneled ceiling. Fluorescent lighting stabs at your eyes. You squint unhappily as your headache worsens slightly.

“(Y/N)! OH, SISTER!” Your eyes flick to your left just in time to warn you of an incoming Papyrus, teary-eyed and bent on hugging all the hurt right out of you. You pat him on the shoulder blade fondly, trying to ignore the painful throb at the back of your skull.

“Papyrus? Are… are we in the hospital?” You pull the sheets up self-consciously, suddenly aware that you’re in a hospital gown. You wonder where your clothes are.

“YES, WE ARE INDEED IN THE HUMAN HOSPITAL,” Papyrus says, looking pleased. “I AM VERY, VERY GLAD TO SEE THAT YOU ARE AWAKE AND THAT YOUR DELICATE HUMAN BRAIN HAS NOT BEEN DAMAGED. YOU ARE JUST AS SMART AS I REMEMBER YOU BEING!” You can’t hold in the snort of amusement, so you turn it into a cough, afraid laughter might hurt the tall skeleton’s feelings.

“It’s just a concussion, Papyrus,” you reassure him. “But… uh… I guess I passed out?”

“YES, THE KINDLY HUMAN DOCTOR TOLD SANS THAT IT WAS SHOCK AND NOT INJURY THAT CAUSED YOU TO LOSE CONSCIOUSNESS. BUT WE WERE BOTH STILL VERY WORRIED! PLEASE DO NOT HIT YOUR HEAD ANY MORE!” Papyrus’s loud voice is making your headache worse. You wince.

“Papyrus, please, can you speak more quietly?”

“OF COURSE, SISTER,” he whisper-shouts.

“How long was I out?” you ask him. You’ve lost time, and it’s left you disoriented.

“ALMOST TWO HOURS. I FEARED YOU MIGHT NEVER WAKE UP!” You have to suppress laughter again. It’s really not fair to Papyrus that you find all his heartfelt declarations so funny. Then a thought occurs to you that stops the laughter in its tracks.

“Where’s Sans?” you ask, suddenly anxious. Without warning, memories surge over you: the assault, the rescue, the pain, the terror. You make a strangled noise. Tears start in your eyes. Your skin crawls as the feeling of Rob’s soft, sweaty hands forcefully revisits you. You shudder and suddenly think, _Sans. I need Sans._

… Sans.

He was… he was really scary. He wasn’t himself.

You’re worried about him.

“Where is he?” you ask again, more urgently. Papyrus looks down at his hands, fiddling with his scarf anxiously. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can form a word, the door opens.

“Ms. (L/N). Good to see you’re back with us,” the doctor says, smiling. She makes a short note on the clipboard she’s carrying and comes around the side of the bed. “I’m Doctor Ahmat. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital,” you respond. “Can I have some Tylenol? My head hurts.”

“I’d like to ask you some questions first, and then, yes, we’ll give you something for the pain. Would you like Papyrus to leave before we begin the examination?”

Papyrus looks at you with sparkling, hope-filled eyes. “He can stay,” you say, smiling at him. “He’s family.” The tall skeleton cheers and hugs you again. “Ow,” you comment.

“Okay, Papyrus,” Dr. Ahmat says. “You’ll have to be quiet during the examination. Can you do that for me?”

“YES, OF COURSE, DOCTOR!” Papyrus responds exuberantly, and quite loudly. The doctor glances at you, looking a little concerned.

“He’ll be good,” you assure her. She takes you at your word, and glances down at her clipboard.

“Are you having any symptoms other than pain?”

Papyrus opens his mouth, glances at you, and shuts it again. 

You think for a moment, running a quick self-check. “I don’t think so.”

“Any vision problems? Blurriness? Tunnel vision?”

“No.” Papyrus does the mouth thing again. You smile. He’s clearly determined to “be good,” as you said. You feel mildly proud of him.

“Hearing problems? Loss of hearing in either ear? Ears ringing?”

“No more than usual,” you respond, checking yourself as the doctor continues her questions. The examination takes a long time. As Dr. Ahmat checks your reflexes, you realize your anxiety over Sans is getting steadily worse. “Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Where’s my other friend? Papyrus’s brother?”

She looks up from her clipboard to meet your eyes. “Let’s finish up here before we talk. Your health has to be the priority.”

“Okay.”

The rest of the exam seems interminable.

Finally, Dr. Ahmat sits back in her seat, smiling slightly. “Well, you seem to be doing very well. I was going to recommend you stay overnight, but I think as long as you’re not left alone, you’re okay to go home.” You can’t stop a smile from blooming across your face. You feel suddenly desperate for your own bed. The doctor continues, “Take Ibuprofen for pain relief if you need it, get lots of rest, and have Papyrus wake you up every three hours for the rest of the night and ask you some questions to make sure you’re not developing neurological symptoms.”

“I WILL CERTAINLY WAKE UP MY FRIEND MANY TIMES DURING THE NIGHT!” Papyrus exclaims, so excited to be of help that he forgets he’s supposed to be quiet. You chuckle.

“You shouldn’t go to work for a couple of days. I’ll write you a note. And I want you to avoid any activities that make your headache worse. These might include reading, video games, any sort of activity that requires concentration. Use your best judgement.” You nod, hoping you’ll be able to read. A couple days in bed with nothing to do may drive you batty. “You’ve got a couple minor injuries in addition to the concussion,” Dr. Ahmat continues. “Some abrasions on your elbows, and your neck is strained.”

“Really?” You twist your head carefully from side to side, only then noticing that the pain in your head has been masking a duller, more achy pain in your neck and upper back.

“Try to keep it still and give those muscles a chance to heal. I suggest you ice it regularly to keep the swelling down. That’ll ease the ache and speed the healing process. We’ve also cleaned and bandaged a laceration on your forehead.”

A flash of pain: Rob’s lips torn and spread away from his bloody, broken teeth in a furious snarl. A trickle of blood running down your face.

“It probably won’t scar, but you can reduce that possibility even more by leaving it alone for a couple of days. It’s a jagged wound and it will feel worse than it is, but try not to mess with it.”

You nod in understanding.

“Finally, you’ve been through a traumatic event and I’d like to suggest a therapist for you.” The doctor writes something on a slip of paper and passes it to you. “Dr. Drew is an excellent psychologist and a specialist in cases of assault like yours.” You bite your lip nervously. You don’t think you’re badly traumatized, but you’ll hang onto the number, just in case. You certainly don’t feel like yourself right now, and the memories you’re having of the… the _incident…_ are shockingly powerful. It’s a little scary how much the world seems to have changed: suddenly, life seems… dangerous.

“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Ahmat asks.

“Where’s Sans?” you demand immediately.

“AT THE HUMAN POLICE HOUSE!” Papyrus shouts. “THEY WILL NOT LET HIM LEAVE UNTIL YOU TELL THEM WHAT HAPPENED!”

“They _arrested_ him?!” you exclaim, sitting up too fast. Your neck spasms and your head throbs and swims. You take a moment to breathe and get your body back under control. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?” You can’t keep the frustration out of your voice.

“I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE QUIET!” Papyrus wails, and you feel immediately sorry for your outburst. You pull your friend to you and hug him tightly.

“Sorry, Papyrus, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You did very well,” you soothe, stroking his shoulder blade.

Papyrus sniffs once, and then pulls gently away. “OF COURSE I DID WELL! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS ALWAYS PERFECTLY CARING AND SUPPORTIVE OF HIS VERY PRECIOUS FRIENDS! AND FAMILY ALSO!” His shouted words echo in your ear. You flinch, but you’re smiling.

“Before I talk to the police,” you say to the doctor, “Can I please have my clothes back?”

* * * * *

This is the biggest crime your little town has seen in several years, and the two officers that come into your room seem both animated and businesslike as they ask you their questions. You do your best to answer in ways that won’t get Sans in trouble. Yes, Rob assaulted you. Yes, you want to press charges. Sans? He’s your friend, and was just there to walk you home. The officers seem to know you’re not telling them the whole story, but they’re surprisingly more amused than anything else when they ask you how Rob’s ribs got fractured and you tell them he fell off the stupid train on his way through uglytown. One of them laughs and tells you that’s the same answer Rob gave them. The other tries to scowl at you and fails.

They know what happened. Of course they know. A mangled man, an injured woman, and her monster friend? The story’s pretty clear-cut, and after a few years on the job, cops develop a remarkably effective bullshit detector.

The surprising thing is that they don’t call you out on your bullshit.

You suppose they hate scum like Rob as much as the rest of the world does. They certainly seem to find his predicament humorous, and apparently (possibly related to Rob’s failure to press charges), they’re not inclined to force you to admit Sans’s involvement.

Sans.

He’s waiting at the police station.

He’s probably worried about you.

You’re worried about him, too.

You suddenly need to see him with a profound desperation that’s very like homesickness. “Can you take me to Sans?” you ask as the questioning draws to a close.

“Sure,” one of the cops tells you, and the other goes to get your discharge papers.

It's almost three in the morning before you're able to leave the hospital, and it would have been later still had it not been a slow night in a small town. The police drive you and Papyrus to the station in the back of their patrol car. On the way, the lanky skeleton manages to befriend both of them. Before you’re allowed to walk into the station, the friendlier of the two cops insists on making Papyrus a “junior deputy,” complete with a golden shield-shaped sticker for his chest. Your gangly friend walks with his chest thrust out proudly, displaying the sticker, as the four of you enter the police station.

You’re not sure what you expected: maybe for Sans to be sitting quietly in the drunk tank or something. You certainly weren’t expecting to see him sitting in a plastic chair by the reception desk, in the middle of a small group of laughing policemen-and-women, cracking jokes.

“so this guy’s, like, seven feet tall, i’m five-nothing over here, and he’s comin’ for me like he wants to pop my head clean off my neck…”

As soon as you see him, you forget that you’re surrounded by strangers. You forget that your head hurts, that your neck aches, that you probably look like a mess and should be lying down. His voice reaches into you, finds a deep cold place you didn’t know was there, and starts to warm it, and you gasp, “Sans!” and throw yourself at him. He stands just in time to catch you.

“whoa! whoa, checkers, hey! you alright? tell me you’re alright.” He holds you away from him slightly, examining you intently.

You laugh a little, suddenly embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just glad to see you.”

“SHE NEEDS LOTS OF REST AND I AM SUPPOSED TO WAKE HER UP FREQUENTLY,” Papyrus announces. You and Sans chuckle. So do all the cops.

“sorry, guys,” Sans says, putting an arm around your waist. It suddenly strikes you that he’s been wanting to see you as badly as you wanted to see him. You don’t know how you know this: you just do. His arm tightens around you a bit, as if he can read your mind. “time to go.”

One of the cops shouts, “Finish the story!”

“oh, uh, the punchline’s, ‘where’s the pez?’” The room bursts into laughter.

“Got a ride home?” somebody says.

“yeah, we’ll be fine.”

One of the officers addresses you: “Don’t your boyfriend get a hello kiss?” The others laugh.

“she’s not my girlfriend,” Sans protests, but doesn’t remove his arm from your waist.

“You’re a lousy liar, Sans Snowdin,” a guy by the wall says.

“and you’re a lousy lay, tomlinson,” Sans quips back, and the room roars with laughter.

Tomlinson shoots back, “Your mom seems to like it!” The laughs take a turn towards good-natured heckling, directed at Sans and Tomlinson both.

Sans guides you towards the door. “see ya guys ‘round sometime,” he says over his shoulder, throwing out a lazy wave. “angie, stay beautiful,” he tells an older woman.

“Get out,” she laughs, and throws a wadded piece of paper at him.

“markowski…” Sans says just before the three of you walk out, and seems to think for a second. “…get fucked.” One more round of laughter fills the station, and Markowski shouts back, “I plan to!” The door closes behind the three of you, and only when the sound of good-natured laughter is cut off do you remember your aches and pains, your very long night, your worry and your fear. You shiver and lean into Sans as he turns to Papyrus.

“gonna take her home, bro. be right back for you.”

“OF COURSE, BROTHER!” Papyrus replies, and Sans pulls you into the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**
> 
> This one was hard to write. Attempted rape is such a horrible thing, and beatdowns are ugly and gross. And I’ve never stayed in a hospital as a patient, so I have no idea how it’s supposed to go. Why, oh, why did I set myself up for this?
> 
> Did you catch that the chapter summary is a humorous double-entendre? SO HUMOROUS.
> 
> Police and mass media have a complicated and generally dysfunctional relationship. Most of the hundreds of news stations and newspapers we know are owned by the same few companies, and the stories we see often contain reflections of the bosses’ views on things. It’s a system of mass outreach, trying to share the thoughts at the top with the rest of the world. Cops, on the other hand, tend to keep themselves to themselves. It’s a tight-knit and pretty exclusive group of people, and there’s a general feeling of, “Only a cop can understand another cop.” It’s a system that’s private and directed inwards. So media and the police have very different ways in which they approach the world, and they don’t often get along. I thought if the media was coming across as anti-monster, then cops, who are usually pretty good at reading people and would know that there’s no real harm in monsters, would be likely to form collective, unspoken pro-monster sentiments.
> 
> As far as battery and the victim not pressing charges, in certain situations, a prosecutor can choose to proceed with legal action without the cooperation of the victim, and they will often do so in cases such as domestic violence, where the nature of the violence is cyclic and it’s reasonable to assume that, if the batterer goes free, the victim will be endangered again. By contrast, if an attacker/criminal is beaten and injured by a bystander and that criminal doesn’t press charges, it’s very unlikely that anyone else will.
> 
> Just so y’all know, I’ve never been in trouble with the cops, but I do know several. They’re an interesting breed.


	22. The Kind of Hurt that Heals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sans presents an unexpected talent.

_Sans_

I was so scared. Oh god, I was so scared.

When I saw her laying there with her pants around her ankles and that… I don’t even know what to call him. There’s not a word for what he is. I should try to come up with one later. Might be cathartic for me. But when I saw him kneeling above her, I just lost it.

I beat him ‘till he cried and pissed himself.

And Checkers saw me do it.

I can’t feel sorry for what I did. Nobody can tell me he didn’t deserve it. But I can’t expect Checkers to accept that side of me. She’s such a good person; I’m sure it horrified her. Hell, I _saw_ that it did. I wouldn’t be surprised if she moves out as soon as she’s recovered. And never talks to me again.

I’m not like other monsters. I’m… bad. Wrong. Maybe crazy, too. I’m broken in ways that even _I_ don’t understand and somehow I bungled the repair job. Now I’m a mangled mess of jagged shards stuck back together haphazardly and Checkers would be so much better off without me hanging around her.

But I can’t stay away from her. She’s hurt. She needs me.

She needs me, right?

Of course when she fainted I had to bring her to the hospital. Then I went to check on Rob, and called an ambulance for him, ‘cause after checking I figured he might die without medical help. The back door was unlocked: fucker kept copies of his work keys. Fucker _planned_ this. I kicked him in the male human junk before I left. Feel kinda guilty about that. But, hey, nobody’s perfect. Sometimes ya just gotta let off some steam. Then I called Paps and told him to come to the hospital, ‘cause the doctor had called the cops when I brought in Checkers and when I came back they grabbed me and told me to come to the station for questioning. Poor Paps thought I was getting arrested. I’d have preferred to leave him out of this, make up some story about how Checkers fell or something, but when I realized I couldn’t stay, I wanted someone to be there for her when she woke up.

Aah, she probably wouldn’t want to see me, anyway.

So here I am in the station, hours later, charming cops. Put The Face on, stay loose, read your audience, crack some jokes you think they’d like. It’s kinda sad: I’d’a really enjoyed this if I wasn’t so stressed out. These guys are actually pretty cool. On any other day, I might even have made some friends. But all I can think about is Checkers, if she’s okay, and if she’s scared of me.

Then, in the middle of a joke, I hear her voice. I look up just in time to see her come straight at me.

She hugs me.

Isn’t she scared? Didn’t she see the shit I can do to humans?

God, she’s all beat-up and bandaged. What kinda lowlife does that to a woman? She’s clinging to me, but suddenly getting a good look at her is the most important thing in the world. I need to reassure myself that she’s all right. I hold her out at arm’s length and check her for trauma.

She’s hurt, yeah, obviously in pain, and exhausted, and shaken, too. But she’s up and walking around, and she’s smiling. Something tight in me slowly unwinds. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Thank god.

She’s okay.

I try to stay available to the rest of the world, laughing when Paps says something awesomely funny and throwing some goodbyes at a few of the guys and girls in the station, but seeing Checkers has destabilized me: all my focus and self-control is unravelling like a torn sweater. I gotta get her outta here, gotta get her home. I need to make sure she’s safe and comfortable and… and _SAFE,_ and I have to do it before I fall apart. My soul’s trembling in my ribcage, and I don’t want to start shaking physically until I can get somewhere private. So I put my arm around her waist and lead her out of the station, into the night, and I leave Paps on the sidewalk while I bring Checkers home.

She lets me hold her like it doesn’t matter that I almost killed someone right in front of her, like she’s okay with what that asshole almost did to her. I was afraid she wouldn’t want to be touched by _anyone,_ especially me, but when I pull her into the living room and sit her down on the couch, she’s smiling at me. I’m about to turn and head back to the station when her smile wavers. She reaches out and grabs my sleeve. Then she says, “Sorry,” and lets it go, looking embarrassed. Her head dips, and she looks up at me hesitantly, as if she’s afraid I’ll think less of her or something. I can’t help it. I lean down and hug her gently. She returns it. Her hands are shaking.

“i’ll be right back,” I tell her, and true to my word, it only takes me a few seconds to pick up Paps.

“WELL, THAT WAS QUITE THE ADVENTURE!” my brother says as soon as we get home.

“It sure was,” Checkers says. She flinched a little at Paps’s loud tone, though. I think she might be too tired to be comfortable around that kind of exuberance.

“yup,” I concur, and continue, “but it’s waaaay too late to be up. c’mon, bro, fluffy bunny’s waiting.”

“FLUFFY BUNNY!” Paps shouts, clapping his hands. “(Y/N), WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME WITH US? YOU HAVE NOT YET HEARD THE TALE OF ‘PEEK-A-BOO WITH FLUFFY BUNNY!’ IT IS ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL FOR A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP!”

I expect Checkers to turn him down, to stay on the couch and relax or maybe go to bed, but she says, “I’d like that,” and gets up. I hurry over to her and my arm slips around her waist again without waiting for me to give it instructions. _Shit, Sans, quit hovering! She’s been through hell tonight. She’s not gonna want to deal with your clinginess!_ But she leans into me gratefully and lets out a little sigh. Huh. If… if I’m reading the signs right, she _wants_ me to stick to her.

Can do.

I keep my arm around her even as we head up the stairs. It’s a little awkward, but Checkers clings to me just as determinedly as I cling to her. We read Paps his favorite bedtime story together: my bro asked if Checkers would do the lady voices, and she seemed happy with the request. Guess my own impressions of Mama Bunny and Betty Bunny aren’t up to snuff. Thanks a lot, bro. Decades of Fluffy Bunny, and this is what it comes to. Rejected in favor of an actual lady. I snicker to myself at the thought, and Paps laughs too. “YOU SEE?! YOU SEE?! I TOLD YOU HE WAS IN THE FRUIT BOWL!” This makes me laugh harder. Checkers chuckles, too, but she’s looking at me inquisitively.

“tell ya later,” I mutter to her, and she nods and smiles and leans into me harder. I haven’t once taken my arm back. It’s still holding her snug against my side. Somehow I’m afraid that if I let her go, she’ll disappear, maybe get into trouble again, go off somewhere I can’t protect her and get hurt again, or worse. I was there tonight. I was _right there._ And I was still almost too late. If she hadn’t clocked that dickwad in the face and made him cry out, I’d’a never known something was wrong. God, I’ve never felt so helpless. And I’ve been through enough timelines to know what helpless is. But this time? I guess… I think…

I think I assumed there’d be no do-overs.

A sudden rush of terror mixed with a stunted, desperate hope hits me like a ton of bricks. Am I… getting better? Should I _let myself_ get better? If I start to believe it’s over and then I’m hit with another reset, I don’t know what I’ll do. Opening myself up to that kind of damage sounds like a terrible idea. At the same time… At the same time, my life has been on hold for far, far too long. It’s about time I started living again. If I can.

Well, we’ll just have to wait and see how things develop.

Paps has fallen asleep, and Fluffy Bunny is resting open in my lap. Checkers’s head is on my shoulder and her breathing is deep and even. I nudge her gently.

“Hmh? ‘M just resting my eyes,” she mumbles, and sits up a little. Heh. Fluffy Bunny does it again. Didn’t know it worked on humans, too.

“let’s get you to bed,” I tell her quietly, and help her to stand.

“Mm-hmm.” She grips my jacket with one hand. “Will you sleep with me?”

I trip over my own feet, and for a second, Checkers has to support me. “guh… wh… hnn?” _Why_ can’t I use my words right now? I _know_ she didn’t mean it like that!

I guess having to keep me from breaking my stupid skull woke her up, ‘cause she blushes and starts to stammer herself. “I mean… I guess I’ve gotten used to… being in bed with you? I just haven’t been able to sleep in an empty bed and now I’m afraid if I do sleep I’ll have… n-nightmares, and I just… Sorry! Sorry, I know you’re tired, too, and I should just leave you alone. Yeah. I’ll go.” She tries to detach herself from me, and that kick-starts my stunned mind.

“no! no, i’ll… i mean, stay with me? please?” I’m afraid of the vulnerability in my own voice, but I can’t let her think I’m doing her a favor here. I _need_ to be with her right now. I’m not going to let her believe she’s bothering me. “i need to make sure you’re okay,” I force myself to admit. I can feel my face heating up. “and i sleep better when you’re with me, too,” I add, determined to be as honest as possible. Checkers gazes at me with something close to wonder. Damn, if it gets her to look at me like _that,_ I should be honest more often. I find myself trapped in her eyes again. “no way i’d get any sleep tonight if you were somewhere i couldn’t see you,” I finish. Or think I finish. Suddenly I find myself babbling, “i may never let you out of my sight again. god, i know how creepy that sounds, i don’t wanna be creepy, i swear i’m not a stalker or whatever but i just was almost too late tonight and if anything happens to you while i’m not there i think i might die, i think it might actually kill me.” I said all that in one breath, so of course when I’m done, I gasp for air. “damn,” I mutter. “changed your mind about letting me stay with you yet?” I’m mortified. Where did all _that_ come from? I glance at Checkers out of the corner of my eye socket and am shocked to see that she’s smiling. She leans over and kisses me softly on the cheekbone.

“Come to bed,” she says, and I do.

* * * * *

_You_

You wake to Papyrus shaking you. The gray light of predawn is just starting to fade into the sky outside the window. Your headache is a little better, but the rest of you has stiffened up and every tiny motion makes your muscles complain. Sans is wrapped around you from behind, breathing peacefully into your hair. When Papyrus shakes you awake, Sans makes a dissatisfied noise and snuggles into your back.

“SISTER! WHAT IS YOUR NAME? WHAT IS THE DAY OF THE WEEK? WHERE DID THEY FIND FLUFFY BUNNY? AND WHY IS SANS IN BED WITH YOU? IS HE OUT OF CLEAN SHEETS AGAIN?”

You groan and rub the sleep from your eyes. “(Y/N). Monday. Or, actually, Tuesday. Under the pears. And, uhh… I guess for protection?” you venture, hoping Papyrus doesn’t probe any deeper into that final answer.

“AH, THAT IS AN EXCELLENT IDEA! SHALL I SLEEP WITH YOU AS WELL? IT WOULD DOUBLE THE AMOUNT OF PROTECTION WE ARE ABLE TO PROVIDE!”

You lay your head back down and pull the covers up around your ears. “No thanks. I seriously doubt we’d all fit.”

“YOU ARE WRONG, BUT I SUPPOSE IT WOULD NOT BE A COMFORTABLE FIT, AND THAT IS ALMOST AS BAD AS NOT FITTING AT ALL. BUT IF YOU GET THE URGE TO CHANGE GUARDS, YOU MAY COME SLEEP IN MY BED AT ANY TIME.” Papyrus gives you a slightly hopeful look which at first you’re not able to interpret. After a quick analysis, you realize he’s feeling left out.

“Maybe tomorrow night,” you offer. “I really don’t feel like moving right now.” Then a thought occurs to you. “I guess it would be more convenient for you if I slept with you tonight? Since you’re waking me up and everything…”

But Papyrus waves his hands in negation. “I AM FINISHED SLEEPING FOR THE TIME BEING. I BELIEVE I WILL GO FOR A MORNING JOG! I SHALL WAKE YOU AGAIN WHEN I RETURN.”

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” you ask. Papyrus is often the first of the three of you to go to bed at night, but he’s also the first up in the mornings and has always gotten a good start to his day by the time you and Sans drag yourselves out of your respective beds. You hadn’t realized before just how early he rose.

“I SLEEP EXACTLY AS MUCH AS I NEED TO FUNCTION AT PEAK PERFORMANCE!” the lanky skeleton announces cheerfully. “WHICH IS MUCH LESS THAN YOU AND SANS SEEM TO REQUIRE. BUT I AM ALWAYS VERY QUIET IN THE MORNINGS SO I DO NOT WAKE ANYONE!” He seems especially pleased at his own considerateness.

Sans makes an unhappy groan and tries to pull you over his face like a pillow. “I think if we don’t stop talking, Sans is going to wake up,” you tell him.

“HE COULD DO WITH LESS SLEEP, BUT I SUPPOSE I SHOULD LET _YOU_ GET BACK TO SLEEP,” Papyrus tells you, somewhat more quietly.

“Thanks…” you mumble, laying your head wearily back down. “…brother.”

Papyrus gasps joyfully and clasps his hands to his face, and his eyes fill with stars.

* * * * *

Papyrus wakes you twice more before you decide you’ve had enough sleep. By the light coming through your window, you estimate it’s around one p.m. You’ve slept half the day away, but your head is feeling much better, so it hasn’t been a complete waste. You’ve had enough sleep for now, though, and you’re restless. Unfortunately, according to the doctor, there’s very little you’re allowed to do. You’ve even taken a bathroom break recently, so _that’s_ off the list. You’d like to get a book and start reading, but you’ve found that using your close-up vision too intensely makes your headache threaten to return. That means reading, any kind of crafting, and most of the other things you like to do are inadvisable right now.

You lay in bed, bored, and find yourself toying with Sans’s hand as it rests on your stomach. You stroke the smooth bone, enjoying the texture, exploring the tiny bumps and divots in the fingers and metacarpals. You catch yourself trying to memorize them, and scold yourself for being creepy.

You feel it when Sans eases into wakefulness. Pseudo-flesh rises up, padding the fingers you’re playing with. You pause in your explorations. He makes a small groan, his hand twitches, and then his fingers withdraw from yours as his hand slides from your stomach, across your side, and away. You hear him rubbing his face behind you. You know you ought to tell him “Good morning,” or something like that, but though you’ve slept in the same bed together, you’ve never woken up together before, and you’re momentarily paralyzed by awkwardness.

Sans wraps his arm back around you, sighs, buries his face in the hair at the top of your neck, and you hear him draw in a deep breath. _Did he just…?_

He freezes as you have the thought, and you feel him tense up. “you’re awake, aren’t you?” he ventures, voice low and flat with embarrassment. The sexy morning voice is, sadly, a bit more understated than usual. He must have gotten enough sleep for once, or possibly better-quality sleep.

“…Yes,” you admit, feeling even more awkward now.

“just so you know, i wasn’t sniffing you, i was just…” He falters. You can feel him thinking for a moment. You wonder what he’s thinking about. “okay, i was sniffing you. but it’s only because you smell so good.”

“Huh?” You turn to face him, shocked and needing to see his expression. You spent yesterday working followed by a couple hours in the emergency room. You probably smell like sweat, french fries, and disinfectant. And possibly adult diapers, a smell which permeates every hospital known to man. Rolling over reminds you forcefully that your body is extremely stiff and sore, and a sound of pain is forced out of you. You stop halfway and end up lying on your back. At least you can see Sans’s face like this.

“oh, uh, don’t move, just… are you okay?” By the time you can see him, his expression has taken the form of extreme worry and stress. His pupils are tiny pinpricks, and his free hand hovers over your stomach as if he’s afraid to touch you, as if he thinks he might break you.

“Yeah, just really stiff,” you say, brushing off his concern. You know it’s a little unfair to ignore his distress, but the last thing you want to do is think about last night. Treating it all casually helps you pretend it doesn’t matter. Besides, you have a pressing question that needs to be answered. “Don’t I smell like fries and hospitals?”

Sans flushes brightly. “only superficially,” he admits, as if he’s forcing the words out. “you, uh… you smell really mellow, and warm, and kind of sweet… it’s hard to describe. but, uh, it’s… it’s nice. please forget i sniffed you,” he adds, a little desperately.

“No,” you say, and for some reason you relish the expression of dismay that crosses his face. You’re feeling contrary when you continue, “Can I sniff you, too, then?”

“huh?!” Sans’s pupils shrink even more. You fight down a smile. What’s gotten into you? You feel sort of silly and crazy this morning.

_This morning isn’t like other mornings._ You push the thought away. You know you need to think about what Rob did. But can’t it wait a little longer? Just a little more peace and happiness with the guy you like? You roll to face Sans, carefully, and then you lean into him. He tenses. You bury your face in his neck and take a deep whiff. Rain on dry earth, lightning, spicy musk. You’re pressed against him, so you feel it when a shudder travels the length of his body. “nnn~” The sound he makes is like a suppressed moan. His fingers slide into your hair. Then they tremble and draw away.

“hhh… i… when i asked if you were okay…”

You pull away. _No,_ your mind supplies. _I’m not okay. But…_ “I’m not ready to talk about it,” you say. Stupid observant Sans, ruining the moment with his incessant thinking. Forcing _you_ to think. You bury your face in the pillow. Your neck and shoulders scream in protest every time you move, but right now this is the closest you can get to privacy. You could ask Sans to leave, but… But you need him here. You need him.

“I feel sort of crazy and giddy,” you admit, unable to look at him while you speak. You wonder if you should let him know how you feel about him ( _if he hasn’t guessed it yet,_ your mind interjects), so he’s not taken completely by surprise if you… well, if you pounce on him. But it’s not a good time; you know he won’t take your actions seriously, or your words, really, until you’ve addressed the issue you’re avoiding. Until then, he’ll probably just consider it a way to stop thinking.

Which it is.

At least to a certain extent.

You groan a little bit as you acknowledge that this is the _worst possible time_ to try to start a relationship.

“i won’t push you,” Sans murmurs. “you can relax.”

“Thanks.” You look at him from the corner of your eye, most of your face still hidden in the pillow. “Later.”

“‘course.”

The two of you gaze at each other for a moment. There are a lot of unsaid things hanging in the scant space between you.

“is there anything you need?” Sans says finally.

“I’m bored,” you say immediately. “Can’t read. Can’t look at things close up yet.”

“wanna go downstairs and watch some tv?”

“Mmm. Maybe. I definitely want to get out of bed.” You roll over again, carefully. It doesn’t prevent your muscles from seizing and you let out a small whimper.

“shit, checkers, hold on a second,” Sans says, and rests his bony hands against you, one between your shoulder blades and the other behind the point of your hipbone. He provides a steady pressure that lets you finish rolling over more easily.

“Thanks, but I’m not a baby,” you protest. “I can roll over by myself. I can get up, too. I might even be able to walk,” you finish saltily. At your back, Sans lets out an amused snort, and some of the tension hovering over you dissipates. It’s odd, you note, how a little snarkiness sometimes makes things more comfortable between the two of you.

“until you’re well enough to fight me, you’re gonna have to put up with me helping you,” he says wryly, and you can hear the smile in his voice. He pushes you a little more, and you take the opportunity to ease yourself out of bed. It really is a lot easier to move with Sans providing leverage in the right places. Still, once you’re standing, you consider taking a vow to never turn your head again. “there,” Sans says, climbing out of bed himself. “that wasn’t so bad.”

“For me or for you?”

He laughs. “just let me spoil you, checkers. believe me, you’ve earned it.”

“Nng,” you groan, easing your head forward and trying to get your arm high enough to rub your neck. You’re not really listening, too caught up in your aches for the moment.

“here,” Sans says, and pulls you gently back, seating you on the edge of the bed and sitting behind you. His fingers slide over your shoulders and he rolls his thumbs over the top of your trapezius, slowly increasing the pressure, allowing the muscles to warm at their own pace. It hurts, of course it does, but at the same time it feels so good. After a few moments, the pain starts to ease, and you’re able to relax. You groan happily as the knots in your muscles begin to unravel.

_“How?”_ you moan. Sans doesn’t have any muscles. Where in the world did he learn how to give a massage? A _good_ one? Though the “good” part of the massage may just come from his sensitivity to your needs.

“do i have to answer that?” His voice contains a strange mixture of embarrassment and pride. He’s obviously pleased at your reaction.

“Yes,” you say, leaning back into his hands.

“damn you’re ornery this morning,” he says fondly, and obligingly increases the pressure. You groan again. Your muscles tingle as he pushes the tension right out of you.

“How do you know how to do this?” you insist.

“i realized human skeletons are really similar to paps and me in a lot of ways, and i got curious about human anatomy. all the extras, you know? i learned about the muscles and how they work, and the circulatory system, and between the two…” He digs his thumbs into the muscles at either side of the back of your neck and draws them upwards with a series of circular motions. You let out another sound of pleasure.

“Bull,” you accuse, not unkindly. His fingers still and he sighs. You lean into his hands impatiently, and he resumes his motions.

“and then i found references to ‘massage’ and… and i thought maybe you’d let me try it on you one day,” he admits, voice almost too low to hear.

You don’t give that the consideration you know you should. Instead, you elect to push him a little farther. Damn, he’s right, you _are_ ornery this morning. “There’s _no way_ you learned this by reading,” you accuse.

“the hell i didn’t.” For the first time, he sounds a little insulted. You guess that’s fair; you’ve known him long enough to be impressed with how quickly he picks things up, and how easily he understands even the most difficult concepts. If anyone could learn to give a good massage just by reading about it, it would be Sans.

He turns his attention to the muscles over your shoulder blades and runs the heels of his hands over them. The bases of his metacarpals drag over your upper trapezius like a rake, like one of those ridged rollers. You shudder and sigh.

“Aaah… You have _no idea_ how good that feels,” you groan, and his hands falter.

“i’m, uh, it’s not… it’s not, y’know… is it? uh, n-never mind.”

You suddenly infer what he means, and you quickly respond, “Oh, no, no, you mean, uh… yeah. No, it’s just really good. In the, like, in the _normal_ way.” You feel the blush as it creeps up your face. “S-sorry about the noises, I know they sound… b-but they aren’t.” You want to turn and see his expression, but your neck and shoulders are feeling so much better. You know as soon as you move, they’ll start to hurt again. You’re in no hurry to facilitate that eventuality. “Seriously, Sans, what do you take me for? I wouldn’t let you… uhh… _that_ me without your knowledge.”

_“that_ you?” There’s laughter in his voice.

“Don’t make me say it.”

Sans chuckles and cautiously returns his hands to the crook between your neck and shoulder. To your immense satisfaction, he resumes patiently, carefully smoothing the knots out of your abused muscles. You sit silently for a while, lost in pleasant sensation, trusting your body to Sans, letting him make it something you’re comfortable in again. Something near the base of your neck gives a little “pop” and you feel an immediate relief, as if a knot of stored tension has dissipated all at once.

That’s when the events of last night hit you. It happens suddenly, without warning. You gasp as tears flood your eyes and begin to stream down your face. Sans’s hands remove themselves instantly.

“checkers?”

“He… Sans, he… _he tried to rape me!”_ A sob escapes you, and you lift your hands to your mouth to stifle the ones that follow. You feel ashamed now that you’ve said it out loud, partly because Sans _knows_ what happened and your silly little declaration sounds to you like the accusation of a child, but mostly because speaking the words somehow made it all real. You feel… ugly on the inside. Bruised and… and _gray_ and… and gross. You don’t want Sans to look at you. You lower your head, letting your hair swing down, hiding your face better than your hands can. You choke on another sob.

And Sans is there, sliding around the side of you, hand on your shoulder, not pulling, but when you lean into him he takes you into his arms like he’s been waiting for this.

Stupid observant Sans, knowing you better than you know yourself.

You cry into his hoodie, and through the tears and gasps and sobs you make yourself tell him what happened: the grasping, groping hands, the terrible choking gag, the struggle, fighting for air and fighting for something else just as essential. You don’t leave anything out. You make sure you don’t. As the words leave you they seem to carry the poison of the experience away with them, so by the time you’ve finished you feel raw and tired, but lighter and fresher, like last night was an infected wound that’s finally been treated, cleaned and bandaged. It still hurts, but it’s a cleaner kind of hurt. The kind of hurt that heals.

Sans’s fingers alternate between combing your hair and scratching your scalp gently. You cry until you have no more tears in you. You continue to let him hold you for a while after that, cooling your heated face in his now-damp jacket. Finally, you release a shaky sigh.

“TV?” you suggest.

You feel his low chuckle rumble through his chest. “tv,” he agrees, and before you can attempt to stand, he draws you carefully into his lap and ‘ports the two of you to the couch downstairs. You laugh a little.

“That was the laziest I’ve ever been,” you comment.

“then you’re not trying hard enough,” Sans says, and leans back into the couch cushions. He pulls you with him, and you lean against his chest, head on his shoulder but cocked so you can see the television. Your temple rests against his cheek, and his pseudo-flesh is a soft cradle for you. Sans makes no move to put you down, and you wonder briefly if you’re heavy, if holding you in his lap is hard for him. But he seems relaxed and comfortable, so you decide not to ask. You plan to stay right where you are for as long as possible. Sans reaches for the remote and flicks the TV on. “what should we watch?”

“Dumbest thing you can find,” you mumble, and settle more firmly against him. He breathes out a happy sigh and holds you a little tighter.

“can do,” he says, and starts flicking through channels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~ Author’s Note ~**
> 
> How did Checkers strain the back of her neck and shoulders when she flung her head _forward?_ Rob’s face was harder than she was expecting, and though the initial attack only damaged her forehead, the recoil caused by bouncing off Rob’s teeth startled her muscles into overcompensating for the sudden shift in direction. Her whole head tried to pull itself into her torso, and _that’s_ when her neck got hurt. Life is stupid and so are injuries. :P
> 
> Checkers is being pretty pushy in this chapter, and that’s mainly because, subconsciously, it makes her feel like she has some modicum of control over her life. Copin’ techniques.


	23. Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which discoveries are made, but not as many as you'd prefer.

_You_

You rest against Sans as the two of you watch daytime game shows. You’d started with soap operas, but that didn’t last long. Even with the addition of constant jokes and heckling from Sans and yourself, “dumbest thing you can find” was _too_ dumb. Papyrus has gotten a second job at a coffee shop down the road, more to channel his excess energy than anything else, and because he’s closing tonight, you and Sans are alone for the afternoon. Paps has been calling every couple of hours to check on you. This might be the first time you’ve fully appreciated what a blessing it is having Papyrus in your life.

Sometimes you let your hand trace Sans’s forearm, the smooth bone beneath soft cloth comforting under your fingers. Sometimes he rubs his thumb gently against your own arm where his fingers are resting. More times than you’re happy with, he gets up to switch out ice packs. He’s been intermittently icing your neck for you for most of the day. You don’t like the cold and you don’t like that he keeps getting up, but as long as you don’t have to hold the ice pack, and as long as he lets you back into his lap when he returns, you can’t find it in you to complain. Hours flow comfortably by.

You’re the boss of Family Feud, but Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune are _his_ domain.

“Looks _and_ brains,” you tease at one point, realizing that your friend has racked up more Jeopardy money than any of the three contestants. He’s not that great at things like history and culture, but he makes up for this lack with a profound knowledge of language and the sciences that borders on the miraculous. You’ve known for a while that his lackadaisical attitude hides one of the sharpest minds you’ve ever encountered: his basement workshop is a case in point, a chaos of circuitboards and wires, transistors and capacitors and tiny soldering tools and other things less identifiable, and _none of it is organized_. It's just sort of scattered, bits and pieces tossed into unlabeled boxes or kitchen bowls or simply allowed to lie on the worktable until they're needed. Venturing down there one night, you saw him tossing things over his shoulder as he searched for something else, muttering to himself in a low rumble. He was so focused he didn't notice your presence, and when you finally spoke up with a question, he startled and damaged whatever it was he was working on. He wasn't upset, but you felt bad about it, and since then, you've avoided bothering him while he's "fidgeting," as he calls it. Later he came upstairs with a tiny circuit that, when installed, allowed him to turn the coffeemaker on with his cell phone. You couldn't help but comment that he'd put an astonishing amount of effort into being lazy. He just grinned and shrugged.

But all that hypothetical Jeopardy money really brings home the point. For the first time, you feel a little sad that he’s not sharing his gifts with the world. 

“nice try,” Sans responds, a slight blush fading into his cheekbones, “but we both know _you’re_ the pretty one.” He’s grinning, but for some reason you don’t think it’s a joke. Your happy smile struggles for a moment as you vacillate between pleasure at the compliment and worry at Sans’s self-deprecation. You hear far too much of that kind of thing from him, and it makes you sad. 

You pull the smile back onto your face and challenge, “Are you saying I’m not smart?” 

“whoa, hold on, you can’t be the pretty one _and_ the smart one,” Sans protests. “that’s not fair.” 

“I guess _you’ll_ have to be the pretty one, then.” You watch his face as you say it. There it is again, that flash of quiet hurt, quickly hidden. “You don’t think you’re attractive,” you accuse. 

Sans snorts and circumvents. “checkers, c’mon, you’re the human. you _have_ to be the pretty one.” 

You blink, train of thought derailed. “Are… do monsters think humans are pretty?” 

“huh? uh, yeah.” He looks surprised you had to ask. 

“You don’t… I don’t know… think we’re weird-looking, or…” You grope for words. “We’re naked and pink, and… just…” 

“hey, we’re all kinda weird-looking, if we’re bein’ honest here.” Sans chuckles a bit, and on seeing your questioning look, he elaborates. “monsters come in all sorts of shapes, so we tend to look _into_ someone instead of _at_ ‘em. but we can all appreciate humans. you come in these nice warm colors and you’ve got these funky crests like undyne has…” He plays with your hair a little, making you giggle. “…and you’re all so soft, not scaly or hairy, plus the noses are frankly adorable.” He maintains an easy, teasing attitude, but as he speaks, a flush of pink begins to creep up his neck. 

“You like my nose?” you ask, laughing a little. 

“yeah, it’s like this cute little knob in the middle of your face.” 

_“Knob?”_ You’re laughing in earnest now. 

“or, like, you know, a stubby horn.” 

You’re laughing so hard now that you snort, which startles both of you. Sans starts to chuckle, himself. “do you seriously think you’re not cute? ‘cause i beg to differ.” The pink has spread to his face. He doesn’t seem aware of it. 

“No, okay, maybe I’m cute,” you admit. “What about you? If we’re arguing about who the pretty one is…” 

Sans snorts derisively. 

“Oh, Sans, come on!” you protest, a little upset now. “You don’t see it?” 

Sans drops his joking attitude immediately. “huh?” He can sense your distress, but he doesn’t seem to understand what’s causing it. “what… what’s wrong?” 

“The way you think about yourself! That’s what’s wrong!” All the fun has drained right out of you. You briefly wish for it back. “Sans, you’re beautiful!” 

His eye-lights shrink to shocked pinpricks. He draws back a little, which doesn’t make much difference as you’re still sitting on his lap. “i… uh, b-beautiful?” Red floods his face, traveling as far as his ear holes. “don’t i, i dunno, look sorta… well,” he admits, “paps ’n’ i’ve had a few comments from humans since we left the underground, and they seem to think we’re… well, scary and, uh, and ugly.” 

You curse softly, imagining poor Papyrus being struck by careless, or even deliberate, insults. You imagine he would laugh and proclaim, perhaps, that the human was blinded by his radiant good looks. Then you imagine him going home and crying into his pillow. “Why do people have to be such assholes?” you murmur with unaccustomed bitterness. You place your hands on either side of Sans’s face, forcing him to meet your eyes, and you look at him intently. You note absently that your headache doesn’t return, indicating it’s now safe for you to look at things close-up, but at the moment, that doesn’t seem important. “Now you listen to me,” you command. “You and Papyrus are amazing, inside _and_ out. Different and ugly are _not_ the same thing.” Your eyes search his, and find wonder there. He listens with surprising intensity, as if he’s dying of thirst and your words are cold, sweet water. “Sans, you just, you _radiate_ warmth and fun and… and I love your smile…” Now you’re blushing, too. “Especially the real one,” you say, and Sans’s expression falters a bit, as if you’ve surprised him. “…and I love your eyes, they’re so big and expressive, and so dark, and there are stars in them…” 

“uhh…” For a moment the two of you stare at each other silently. You can’t believe what you just said about his eyes, and Sans looks like he can’t believe he heard it. Your face is burning. _I sound like an idiot,_ you scold yourself, and you break gazes with him, looking away. Your eyes fall on his hand, resting on your upper arm near your elbow. You put your own hand on it, and drawing it from your arm, you hold it up, tracing the bones. Sans holds very still as your fingers travel downwards, pushing his sleeve out of the way to explore his carpals. 

“Your body’s like ivory and lace,” you murmur. Sans seems to be holding his breath. Your fingers leave his carpals, following his ulna up into his sleeve, then sliding into the narrow space between his ulna and radius, exploring. 

Sans startles and makes a strangled noise. Startled yourself, you glance at his face. His expression is tense, high color in his cheekbones, pupils a little dilated. “n-not there,” he stammers, and pulls your hand gently out of his sleeve. As your fingers slide from between the bones, his breath hitches slightly. “ticklish,” he explains, but he’s a bit short of breath, vividly flushed, and avoiding your eyes, and you know he’s not really telling the truth. Your hand flies to your mouth as you realize what’s happened. 

“Oh, god, I’m so so sorry!” 

Sans chuckles nervously and places a hand over his chest, as if he’s holding his heart in place. “just… uhh… good general rule: the less accessible an area is, the more ticklish it’s probably gonna be.” 

“Got it,” you say, blushing furiously. You wonder if, as good as he is at reading people, he knows that _you_ know he’s not being completely honest. Well, either way, it’s too embarrassing a subject for you to call him out on it. 

Sans sighs and gives you a rueful look. You have a moment to realize that, yes, he knows, and then he grins and cocks a bony brow at you. “didn’t even buy me dinner first.” 

You’re surprised into a laugh. Sans looks pleased with himself. He always loves it when you laugh at his jokes. “So…” you start. He looks at you expectantly. You’re about ask if you can change the channel, but his deep dark eyes are looking into yours and his bright pupils look almost solid floating in those black pools, and you’re thinking about all the things you don’t know about Sans, in particular the mysteries of his body, and in your state of abstraction, what comes out of your mouth is, “Can I touch your eye?” Immediately afterward you suppress the instinct to slap your hands to your mouth. The embarrassed blush, however, is insuppressible. 

“whoa, what the hell? no.” Sans chuckles, a bit nervously. “that is _not_ what i expected to hear.” 

“Shit, sorry, oh god, I’m sorry.” Your face gets hotter. “I wasn’t going to say that, I don’t know where that came from. Well, I _do,_ it’s just…” 

“hey,” Sans interrupts your babbling. “that’s… heh, that’s a lotta anxiety over one little question.” He’s wearing a slightly bemused expression now. 

“Sorry,” you apologize again. “I guess… it’s just, I… your eyes are interesting, you know?” Your face is still radiating heat. You’re hyperaware of your other recent comments about his eyes. If only there was a way to go back in time and stop yourself from speaking, you’d take it in a heartbeat. “But,” you continue, “I know it’s probably a… a _ticklish_ spot. Can we please just forget it?” 

Sans blinks. “is that what’s so embarrassing?” He chuckles. “naw, it’s nothing like that. i just don’t wanna get poked in the eye.” 

You laugh suddenly, and your embarrassment evaporates. You take a brief moment to admire the way Sans does that; his ability to put people at ease is a rare and wonderful talent. “Sorry!” you say once more before you can stop yourself. “It’s just,” you continue, “I guess I’ve been wanting to… uh… you know, we’re so different, and I haven’t gotten to really check you out yet. Not _check you out,_ I mean, like…” 

“examine me?” Sans smiles at you with amusement mixed with a warm fondness, and you gain courage from his easy acceptance. 

“Yeah.” You think you know where this is going, but you’re not sure how to feel about it. Is he really going to let you… study him? He’s a person, not a thing, and you’re afraid that being scrutinized in that way would be dehumanizing. Or de-monster-izing. Or whatever. 

At the same time, if you pass up this opportunity, you might not get another one. 

Sans holds his hand out to you, palm up in a gesture of offering. “well, knock yourself out, i guess. but no eye poking. and, uh, don’t touch the inside of anything. in case of ticklishness.” For a moment, his grin turns a bit awkward. You smile ruefully back at him and make your decision. 

You take your time, bending his joints, watching them move, studying the changes in texture among the different bones. The bottoms of his feet are very smooth, almost polished. He laughs and squirms and curls his toes when you stroke them, and finally tells you to cut it out. You choose not to mention ticklishness in the interests of leaving your earlier faux pas in the past where they belong. The tips of his fingers are less smooth, and you discover that they’re lightly, almost unnoticeably, textured. That must give a better grip. You ask him if all skeletons’ “fingerprints” are different, but he shrugs and replies that he’s never thought about it. Then a considering expression crosses his face, and you know he’s thinking about it now. 

Weirdly, his patella rides around a bit on the front of his knee. It doesn’t seem to be attached to anything, and you wonder how it stays in place. You climb back into his lap, straddling him, in order to lift his shirt. You flip the shirt up and down a few times, entertained by the way his pseudo-flesh forms a frame for his clothes but is completely invisible. Under his t-shirt, all you see is a spine, a ribcage, the wings of his pelvis rising slightly above his waistband. For the second time, you’re seeing him shirtless, and again you notice a faint blue glow in the center of his ribcage. It’s sourceless and dim, but it’s there, and strangely, you feel a rush of love when you look at it, instinctive care and fondness. Something inside you insists that you’re looking at the center of Sans’s being, the thing that makes him who he is. The glow grows momentarily brighter as you think this, pulsing, seemingly in response to your feelings toward it. At the same time, your own chest grows slightly warm, as if echoing the action. “Wow,” you breathe. 

Sans chuckles nervously. You look up at him. He’s avoiding your eyes, blushing, but as your gaze lights on his face, he glances at you just for a moment. That glance is anxious, as if he’s worried about what you think. 

“It’s so pretty,” you tell him. He grins shyly, ducking his head. 

You’d like to put your fingers into his ribcage to see if you can touch the glow, but you know better than that by now. Everything in there is bound to be off-limits. Instead, you reach out with your hand, heading for his spine, and are stopped by the unseen barrier of his pseudo-flesh. Sans laughs breathily and moves your hand away. You glance up at him and are surprised to see he’s blushing harder, averting his eyes again, even sweating a little. He glances at you and quickly looks away. 

“not the spine,” he says. 

“Okay,” you say. “Sorry. It’s not hard to get to, so I thought…” 

“it’s, uh, it’s not a skeleton thing,” he elaborates, voice dropping low as if he’s ashamed. “i-it’s a sans thing,” he almost whispers. 

“Oh,” you say. He looks so uncomfortable that you admit, for his sake, “I have the same thing on the backs of my knees.” He blinks at you and opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. You bite your lip pensively. “Neck too?” you ask, remembering burying your face in his neck this morning, recalling the noise he made. 

“mm-hmm.” The sound is strained, as if he made it because, momentarily, he couldn’t form words. 

“Okay,” you say again, and place your hand on his sternum. The ridged scar slides diagonally from his upper right chest to his lower left. You trace it with your fingertips. Sans tenses. You swallow your question, hyper-aware of his anxiety. 

Maybe one day he’ll choose to tell you where he got this. Until then, you’ll let it be. You raise your eyes to his, smile gently and gratefully, and lower his shirt. 

Sans clears his throat awkwardly, glances at the T.V., and says, “euler’s formula,” apparently in response to Final Jeopardy. You watch with him for a few seconds. When he’s proven right, you applaud playfully. 

“So,” you say. He glances at you sideways. “Thanks for letting me feel you up.” 

Sans chokes and starts laughing. “no prob,” he tells you through the snickers. “lord knows i’ve got my own questions. i totally understand.” 

“Huh,” you say quietly. “You can, uhh, _examine_ me too, if you want.” 

“for real?” Sans looks at you thoughtfully. Then, a little hesitantly, he reaches for your face. 

He touches your cheekbones, the shell of your ear, and you shut your eyes as he brushes your eyebrows with his fingers. “Don’t touch my eyes either,” you tell him, and he chuckles softly. He discovers your nose bends back and forth, and you both laugh at that. You’re unwilling to take your shirt off for him, but as several female monsters also have breasts and, therefore, chest-related modesty requirements, he understands. He asks about your birthmarks, if all humans have them, and then if all humans who do have them have them in the same places. He’s fascinated by the feeling of the bones under your skin, at one point commenting that you’re even more like a skeleton than he thought. And then he discovers the markings on your palms and the whorls of your fingerprints, and on learning that they’re unique to each human, that no two are alike, he squints at them for a long time, as if he’s trying to memorize them. 

“You’re not going to need to recognize me by my fingerprints,” you giggle. “There are better features for that.” 

“no, i mean, it’s just… they’re special, you know?” He flushes a little. “there aren’t any others like them, right? so yours are, uh, are special.” He dips his head, the uncharacteristic fumbling for words clearly an embarrassment. You’re glad he’s not looking at you now, because you’ve started blushing, too. Jeez, one little indication of how important you are to him, and you’re an awkward schoolgirl again. 

Then he finds your pulse. 

“what… is… this?” he asks, holding his fingers over the pulse point in your wrist. His eyes have widened, his mouth dropped open a little. The fascinated look is adorable on him. 

“I think you’re feeling my pulse?” you answer, and move his fingers so you can check for yourself. “Yeah, that’s my heartbeat.” Sans’s fingertips find your pulse point again as soon as you remove your own hand. 

“you can feel your heart beating?” His eyes flash to yours, and the awe in them shocks you. Suddenly, you feel like you’ve given him access to the very core of your life, the thing that sustains you, and… 

This suddenly feels more intimate than you’d intended. 

“it’s getting faster,” Sans says. He sounds a little distracted, and when he looks up to meet your eyes again, his pupils are wider than normal and slightly hazy at the edges. 

“Uhh, yeah, it does that,” you tell him, and you note with a flash of anxiety that your own voice also sounds a bit vague. His fingertips on your wrist feel larger than they are. Your pulse throbs against them as if it’s trying to escape your body. It occurs to you that now would be a good time to pull away, break the dangerous connection that’s formed between the two of you, but instead, you take his other hand and guide it to your throat. 

“Try this one,” you say, in a near-whisper. Sans’s fingers find the pulse point at the side of your neck, so much stronger than the one in your wrist, and he breathes out a shaky, “whoa.” Your heart flutters at the overwhelmed expression on his face, and Sans, with all his attention focused on what’s happening under his fingertips, notices immediately. 

“why does it keep speeding up?” His voice has also dropped to a whisper. A cocoon of quiet awe and intimacy seems to surround the two of you. It feels as if you and Sans are doing something either sensual or sacred, or possibly both. You think he feels it, too, but he’s not retreating like he normally would. He almost seems unable to disengage himself from your pulse. 

You gently draw his hand away from your neck and settle back against him, ending the exploration. Sans sighs a little, and his hands, when they shift to hold you to him, have a slight tremor in them. 

His chest feels warmer than usual. You feel an answering heat in your own, and after a moment it occurs to you to wonder what that strange heat is. Is there something wrong with you? You’ve never felt a warmth in your chest like this. The first thing you think of is, _Hot flashes?_ But, no, that can’t be right. You’re decades away from menopause. At least, you _hope_ you are. What about heartburn? But, no, that’s painful. This feeling is peculiar, but pleasant. The heat in Sans’s chest increases for just a moment before stabilizing, creating a sensation against you that feels almost like a throb. Your own chest does the same thing, heat surging through you in tandem with… 

This is connected to Sans, you realize suddenly. 

Something inside you and something inside Sans are… talking to each other? Maybe? 

Is this feeling coming from your soul? 

You glance at Sans, wondering, and catch him staring at your mouth. He looks away quickly, blushing. Suddenly you remember the drunken kiss you forced on him at the New Year’s Eve party, and against your will, your mind adds imagination to the mix, supplying elaboration in the form of mouths sliding open, tongues tangling. Your heart thuds desperately and butterflies swarm in your stomach. This time, your own chest throbs with heat, and Sans’s echoes it. Sans glances at you out of the corner of his eye socket, and when he catches you looking at him, he looks away again. Can he feel the heat in your chest the way you can feel his? You doubt it. The way you’re positioned, your chest is safely cupped inside your slouching posture. 

You’re tempted to turn your body and press your chest to his, to see if he can feel your heat, to find out how far this could go. But… 

But you feel like if you push Sans too hard, he’ll flee. You don’t want to overwhelm him. This whole… whatever-it-is… might mean he’s attracted to you. But even if that’s true, there’s no guarantee that he wants that kind of relationship. In fact, everything he’s given you up to now, everything since you’ve known him, points to him _rejecting_ the idea of being with you romantically. Your mind flies over what memories it can dredge up, and the heat in your chest starts to wane as you realize that, yes, he’s been rejecting you, over and over again. Gently, carefully so as not to hurt you, but it’s still been rejection after rejection, and your twitter-pated mind didn’t even notice until now. 

Maybe he likes you. You _think_ he likes you. But for some reason, he doesn’t want to love you. 

The surging heat in your chest is almost gone, replaced by a crushing pain. Tears prickle your eyes. You squeeze them shut and bury your face in the crook of Sans’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, trying not to cry and failing. Sans makes a concerned rumbling noise and his arms tighten around you, giving you what comfort he can, even though he doesn’t know what’s causing your sudden tears. 

He wants you, and he _doesn’t_ want you. This is all so confusing. Is he just shy? The thought hits you out of the blue, and your crying peters out as you consider this. That’s… definitely a possibility. He’s certainly not shy when it comes to interactions in general, but maybe romantic feelings are hard for him to deal with? Oh, god, you’re building ill-constructed scaffoldings of assumptions again. 

Maybe you should just _ask_ him? 

You think he’d probably avoid the issue. Whatever the issue is. Is an interspecies relationship abhorrent to him? Is he afraid to damage the friendship you have now? Is there something about you that he doesn’t want in his life? Or, you think suddenly, something about him that he doesn’t want in yours? That’s a leap of logic, sure, but it _does_ sound like Sans. Hard on the heels of this thought comes another, one that takes you by surprise. _How much do I really know about Sans?_ You know who he is as a person, as a friend, the things he likes and the way he thinks, but you suddenly find yourself crashing up against the realization that the biggest reason you can’t guess how he feels right now is that he shares very little with you. 

Now that you’re thinking about it, you’re shocked at how much you don’t know. Do Sans and Papyrus have parents? Where are they? What was life like for them before the barrier was broken? Papyrus would share. You could ask _him._ And you will, as soon as you’re able to get some one-on-one time with him. But you get the feeling you’ll only learn about _Papyrus_ that way. Sans is so different from his brother in so many ways; you feel like maybe they had really different childhoods, or some significant things happened to one of them but not the other, or something. Just asking Papyrus won’t be enough. You need to hear from Sans, too. The little things Sans _does_ share with you, small phrases like, “i needed to see the sky,” tell you a bit about him, but it’s not nearly enough to put together a full picture, and his habits of dodging questions and making light of his deeper emotions have resulted in you having a friend you can’t imagine life without, but whom you don’t fully understand. 

You need to take a step back. You need to ask the questions. You’ve gotten so comfortable around Sans just as he is that you’ve forgotten there’s more to him than what you can see. You groan a little to yourself and cling a bit tighter to him, even as you reprimand yourself for your neediness, and for maybe putting unwelcome pressures on him. He murmurs, “you gonna be okay?” and rubs your back comfortingly. God, he probably thinks this is about Rob. For a while there, you actually completely forgot about your recent ordeal. You sniffle and nod into his shoulder in answer to his question, but you’re not ready to talk yet. You need to think. 

This whole thing is so complicated. _Sans_ is so complicated. Why did you have to fall for someone with… with _baggage?_ Mysterious baggage you don’t understand and which he refuses to share? 

And how weird is it that you’re turning to him for comfort when he’s the reason you’re upset in the first place? Is it wrong of you to ask this of him? 

You sigh to yourself. Does it matter so much? You really need him right now. 

You wrap your arm loosely around his ribcage and let your body relax into him. He holds you firmly, almost hugging you, and starts to comb his fingers through your hair. 

That’s when Roxy kicks the door open. 

“Sans! Papyrus!” she shouts, as you and Sans startle so badly you almost fall off his lap. Your neck and shoulders spasm and send shooting pains through the rest of your body. You slide off Sans’s lap and gingerly stand up as Roxy turns far enough to see you. 

“Sweetie! Oh god, oh god…” She rushes to you and throws her arms around your neck, crying her eyes out. 

“Roxy?!” You’re truly alarmed at the state she’s in. You rub her back reassuringly. “Rox, what’s wrong?” 

“What do you mean ‘what’s wrong?’” she all but wails. “That creep Rob’s been arrested for attacking a woman and you didn’t come to work today! I thought for sure it was you!” 

You shoot Sans a helpless glance. He shrugs, seemingly at a loss. Roxy continues to cry into your shoulder. 

“Harriet’s pressing charges, too, now, for sexual harassment, not actual assault, and some other woman we don’t know is doing it too, and oh! He’s in such big trouble! But I was _so worried about you…”_

“It’s okay, I’m all right,” you say, patting Roxy on the back. “I’m okay, but… we need to talk.” 

* * * * *

It’s much easier to tell the story for a second time. When you made your confessions to Sans this morning, you had to fight for words through what could best be described as a toxic agony. You find, as you tell Roxy what happened last night, that your feelings now are a mix of anger at Rob and the unfairness of life, and a pervasive anxiety that comes from seeing the world as a far more dangerous place than you’d supposed. Roxy cries, but you don’t. You hug her and continually reassure her that you’re all right, you’re safe, he didn’t get you, and it’s over now.

It hadn’t occurred to you that Roxy would hear about this.

You didn’t even _think_ about Roxy.

The guilt is killing you.

The three of you are sitting on the living room carpet in a close ring. You’ve started calling it “the therapy circle” in your head. Though at this point in the conversation, _whose_ therapy is becoming unclear.

“And where were _you?”_ Roxy demands, pointing aggressively at Sans. His face freezes in a smile that looks more like a grimace, and his eye lights wink out completely. “You’re _all over_ (Y/N) most days! Where were you when it mattered?”

“Rox, Sans saved me!” you protest.

“Not soon enough! _Look_ at you!”

“I’m okay, Rox, it’ll heal, it’ll all heal. Sans was there for me. It’s okay.”

“You let this happen!” Roxy points at Sans and starts crying again.

“Leave him alone!” you snap. Roxy sniffs and looks at you, surprised. You feel guilty for yelling at her, but you can’t bear the look on Sans’s face right now. You know he looks relatively nonchalant to Roxy, but you can see a startling amount of pain and guilt in him now. You wonder how you missed it before. The worst part of it is that he’s not saying anything. Words come so easily to Sans, and he’s constantly hiding his feelings behind them, but now, when he’s clearly in need of a verbal buffer, his speech seems to have deserted him. “This isn’t about who to blame,” you say more quietly. “It’s Rob’s fault. You _know_ it’s all Rob’s fault.”

Roxy sniffles and dries her eyes on her shirt collar. “Sorry, Sans,” she mumbles.

“nah, don’t be,” he says. His tone is casual, but his voice is low and a little tight. “i shoulda noticed sooner that something was wrong.”

“Dammit, Sans,” you say tiredly. “Just agree with me, will you?”

“totally rob’s fault.”

“That’s better.”

Roxy lets out a watery laugh. You lean against Sans’s side. He puts an arm around you. Roxy scoots over to your other side and puts her arm around your waist, and snugs herself up to you.

You’re sandwiched between the two people you love best in the world.

With an almost audible sigh, the last of the lingering bitterness from the attack evaporates.

You’ve been telling Roxy various versions of “it’s okay,” since she arrived. But now, for the first time since the attack, you feel the truth of it.

This time, when you start to cry, it’s with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ Author's Note ~**  
> 
> 
> So sorry for the recent delays, everybody!  A couple months ago I had to move out of my friend's house and back in with my parents, and then I bought a house of my very own (!), and then I had to move out of my parents' house and into that one.  It was SO.  MUCH.  WORK. But things are settling down now, and hopefully I can start posting a little more frequently.
> 
> Sans’s thoughts immediately prior to the eye-poking question: “c’mon, take the bait. order pizza.”


	24. In This Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Papyrus springs a clever trap.

  
  


_Sans_

 

It’s February before I know it. With everything that’s happened recently, the changing of the months kinda snuck up on me. In preparation for some romance-related holiday, the humans have taken to putting little red and pink souls on things, which is a little embarrassing to me, along with most other monsters. Putting that most private of things casually on display just seems so wrong. But since humans don’t soulbond, giving your partner something with a soul on it is probably just a gesture of love and devotion without all the more, ahem, _intimate_ connotations.

I still gotta look away when I pass the more wildly-decorated storefronts, though. Understanding cultural differences is all well and good, but you can’t expect a guy to look at a bunch of souls all touching each other and not feel either embarrassed or turned on, or even a little of both, which is really confusing and one of the most effective set-ups for long-term humiliation I’ve ever experienced.

Hopefully I can get past this soul holiday without making an ass of myself. In one way or another.

Speaking of asses, the trial’s next month. Movin’ right along, there. The arraignment went pretty well, I guess. GaRobage is being charged with three counts of sexual harassment and one of sexual assault, another of aggravated assault, and Checkers’s boss has added a final charge of breaking and entering. I’m helping Rob remember his part of our deal by occasionally letting him spot me outside his little jail window late at night. I swear he pisses himself again every time he sees me. He may end up being the first criminal in history to fight _against_ a lighter sentence. Heh. As if prison could protect him from me. He’ll prob’ly never know that what actually protects him from me is Checkers, and my pathetic need to be one of the good guys for her.

God, _Checkers._ She saw me at my absolute worst that night, and she just accepted it. I know she didn’t like it, could see the fear in her face at the time, but she knows that part of me now, and she’s still my friend. She still smiles at me whenever I come into the room, still sits beside me and leans against me. She acts like nothing’s changed. She just took that new information and integrated it into the whole, and she’s still here with me.

She’s the only non-enemy in the whole world who’s seen me like that. Feels pretty good, like I’ve gotten something heavy off my chest. I wish I could tell her what her acceptance means to me. But I’d probably end up saying more than I meant to, and I’m not opening up that can of worms. Nope. No way. Nuh-uh.

That’s a no.

Her therapist told her yesterday that she’s doing great. She says she gave me and Paps the credit for that. That’s a bunch of bull, if you ask me. It was all Checkers. She’s amazing. She took the kinda blow that knocks other folks clear off their feet, and she just rocked a little and kept on fighting.

God damn.

Who _wouldn’t_ fall for her?

Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? She could have anyone she wants. And I’ll be first in line to tell ya I’m a bottom-of-the-barrel kinda guy. Between my outcast race and my fucked-up psyche, and, uh, and my violent tendencies and, and messy lazy life, and cringe-worthy sense of humor (though that’s what makes it funny) and total lack of ambition and weird compulsions about clocks and calendars and my recent obsession with Checkers’s pulse to the point where yesterday I was so lost in the memory of it that I walked into a wall and…

You know what?

The biggest problem is _right fucking here._

I squint at the computer screen, struggling to overcome the urge to fling the thing to the floor. Social media has always been something I’ve enjoyed, if only because it provides so many opportunities for playful trolling. But just look at this shit. I sigh and rest my chin on the tabletop. Checkers deserves better than this.

_*Evil faces, evil souls_

_*Stranger danger_

_*Protect your family!_

_*Monster by name, monster by nature_

_*#DieDevilDie_

Oh, Christ, lookit this one.

_*Justice for Rob!_

Shit, they know about that, huh? Not that many people will get behind that one… probably. I mean, it’s public knowledge that the guy’s a douche. Right? Yeaaaah, maybe I oughta prepare for the worst. You know. Just in case.

My hands twitch agitatedly. Better give ‘em something to do. I push away from the table and head for the basement stairs.

My workshop is less of a mess than usual. Paps must’ve cleaned it. Hope I can still find stuff. I reach the workbench and pull a box of small electronic parts towards myself. Know I had a couple blank circuitboards in here somewhere. I don’t have a project in mind yet, but I’m agitated and I need to think, and fidgeting with stuff like this has always helped get the ol’ gears turning.

I start laying chips and capacitors and transistors on the board in various formations, letting my mind wander as I do.

This Rob thing is gonna bite me in the metaphorical ass, probably sooner rather than later. With Paps’s and Checkers’s lives tangled up with mine, this could turn into one hell of a mess. How do I protect the people I care about from the backlash?

Hey, Paps ’n’ Checkers aren’t the last of the possible casualties, or even necessarily the worst part of this thing. The whole monster race is in trouble because I beat the piss outta that fucker instead of using my words like a goddamn grown-up.

No, that’s wrong. Sort of. I’ve fucked up a lotta shit in my day, but the monster-human relations fiasco? _That_ happened without me. That shit’s on someone else.

…

………

Who?

Well, that’s the big question, isn’t it? It’s probably a politician, or more likely a group of them, or somebody else close to the political goings-on. It would have to be someone with influence, somebody able to make the news stations dance to their tune. Or someone who had something to offer them.

Like ratings.

I groan and rub my face as I realize that, since fear and anger and threat of disaster are a news company’s bread and butter, they might jump at the chance to incite conflict.

Or, hell, our invisible villain could just be somebody really persuasive who’s been able to convince them that monsters are wicked and scary. It wouldn’t take much to do that, I gotta admit. A lot of us already look scary to humans. That’s true no matter what Checkers says about my eyes and my smile and my body and her pulse was throbbing under my fingertips like a butterfly’s wingbeats and…

The circuitboard clatters to the ground, bits and pieces scattering as my suddenly numb fingers fumble it right off the edge of the workbench. And just like that, I’m lost. I have no idea what I was thinking previously, what I was doing. I lean against the bench, trying to pull myself back together. An entirely too-pleasant tension twists inside me, followed by a wave of vibrant heat that originates from my soul and sweeps through my bones from my center to the ends of me, pulling a shudder in its wake. My knees go weak and I grip the edge of the workbench to keep myself upright. Then I curse myself for being an idiot. _Sans, you asshole, what the hell are you doing? Get it together, man! She’s your friend. Your_ friend. _You_ can’t _feel like this about her! It’s not right!_

The memory of the pulse in her neck is so strong I can feel it even now, a phantom sensation against my fingers. I can smell her, too, warm and sweet, feel her weight settled on my legs, her knees resting against the sides of my pelvis, her breath barely brushing my radius as my hand lies on her throat. Another hot, trembling wave rolls over me, and I grip the bench harder, gritting my teeth, fighting with myself. I wasn’t so hot-and-bothered when this was actually happening. Maybe it was the calming effect Checkers has on me, or the strange sacred feeling that kept me grounded at the time, but even with her heartbeat at my fingertips, I was okay. How is it that now, just the _memory_ of those moments is enough to flip all my switches?

A second later, I lose the fight. With a burst of cyan light, my soul solidifies. The glow of it through my shirt is so strong this time that it illuminates the basement. I feel the weight of it pressing outward from its place in my ribcage, a sensation kinda like two magnets trying to repel each other, combined with a spike in that hot, twisting tension that’s currently making me extremely uncomfortable and not a little bit guilty.

Pale blue light dances on the walls, rippling like sunlight shining through water.

Goddammit.

So now I’m stuck here until _that_ goes away.

This shit never happens to Paps. So unfair.

I get my legs back under me with a little effort, and stoop to pick up the stuff I dropped.

  
  


_You_

 

You deliver a tray full of dirty dishes to the sink in the kitchen, and this time, you don’t even shiver. It’s your third day back at work, and initially, the kitchen brought back an alarming number of feelings you’d hoped to put behind you. But you’re getting used to it now. A little extra effort on your part, and the kitchen at the café is starting to feel more like it used to, before… before the thing.

Everyone’s been extra-nice to you, like they’re afraid of breaking you. They keep offering to let you go home if you need to, or work for you, or take care of the bussing so you don’t have to leave the dining area as often.

It’s getting a bit annoying.

You’re starting to wonder if they think you can’t take care of yourself.

Then they look at you dubiously when you politely refuse, and _that_ makes you wonder if maybe they think you don’t know what you want.

You’ve been doing a lot of fake smiling today.

You never thought you’d have _that_ in common with Sans.

Louann’s on dishes duty this afternoon, and her face is grave as you place the dirties on the “dirty” side of the sink. You look at her, curious and a little alarmed. “What’s up?”

“Uh, Harriet’s got something you should maybe oughta see. ‘Cause, y’know, those friends of yours…”

The last traces of smile drop from your face, dislodged by a shiver of apprehension. You turn towards the back of the kitchen, where Harriet, Jesse, and Brian are clustered in a small group, watching the screen of Harriet’s cell phone. The apprehension worsens. You bite your lip and make your way to them.

They’re streaming a newscast, as you suspected. Harriet is addicted to the news, and often watches it on her phone during downtime at work.

“… serious but stable condition. Details of her injuries have not been released, but the fear in her parents’ eyes speaks for itself. Back to you, Jane.”

“What’s going on?” you ask as you pull up beside Brian. He scoots over to make room for you, or tries to. Cell phones generally have a three-person viewing limit. Harriet pushes the phone closer to you to help you see.

“A little girl got hurt by some monster kids,” Jesse offers.

“Oh, shit.” Your coworkers gasp dramatically. You don’t swear out loud very often. You grimace at them. “I mean shoot. Is she okay?”

Harriet shrugs. “We don’t know, really. I guess she’s gonna be all right, but they haven’t given us any details yet. That’s not the biggest thing, though.”

On the screen, a second anchor, this one seated in the studio, continues the report. “…principal has stated that bullying is not tolerated at Owens Elementary and there is a strictly-enforced policy requiring teachers to report any incidents of it. However, there has been concern expressed that such a system may break down if the teachers are under the influence of fear or threat themselves. It is possible that, if bullying _was_ occurring, witnesses may have been reluctant to report it.”

“Bitch,” you grit out, glaring at the anchor. Brian gasps again. You elbow him in the ribs and he desists.

You bet the _news companies_ are the main source of those “expressed concerns.” You _know_ monsters. With malice such a potent poison to them, it’s extremely unlikely those kids could be bullies. It’s neither in their natures nor in their culture: you doubt the word “bullying” was even _needed_ in the Underground.

The anchor continues, “…integration talks have turned to the subject of temporary segregation pending reevaluation of the needs and expectations of monsters and humans.”

The film cuts to a white-haired older man in a sharp suit: this is clearly a segment from a previous interview. The caption on the bottom of the screen reads, “Theodore Strauss, Representative, Province 17.”

“There’s an understandable stigma associated with the word ‘segregation,’” Strauss says calmly. “But we need to be firm on this: we have to lay a solid foundation under the relationship between our two races before we can start to build on it. And to do that, we all need to take a step back.”

“What does that even mean?” you grumble. It seems like all you need to be a leader is a flair for spinning bullshit. “It’s a _relationship,”_ you add with a scoff. “You can’t build a foundation for it if you separate the participants.”

“Nuance,” Jesse says vaguely, still watching the screen. “What really matters is they want to take the monster kids out of all the schools.”

“I can’t tell whether you’re for or against the idea,” you complain.

“Neither can I,” Jesse answers, not looking at you.

You could argue your case, but the news report is ongoing and you need to hear this.

“While no firm decisions have been reached, the pressure is on to create a safer environment for both species.” The anchor is on-screen again. The film quickly flips back to the interview with Strauss as he comments, “A bill requiring registration of all monsters residing on human land is in the works. If it passes into law, it will be of great use to us in keeping an up-to-date monster census, which will in turn help us to more easily discover trends and statistics that might otherwise be overlooked. We’re going to get to the bottom of these problems, and we’re going to do it together, for the good of all.”

 _Registration?_ Your body goes numb in shock. That will allow the government, or at least whoever’s in charge of the registers, to track and monitor any monster in their system. It’s an appalling invasion of privacy rights, but more than that, registration of _anything_ is traditionally a precursor to legislation that would otherwise be difficult to enforce. Leaving aside the fact that registering a person is _not_ equivalent to registering a vehicle (your mouth twists at the thought, as if you’ve bitten into a lemon), the implication of this proposed registration is that your friends can expect more laws aimed at them, and soon.

The report has segued into “man on the street” interviews. You watch a thirty-something man in a Walking Dead t-shirt state that his son is afraid of monsters and segregation will make it easier for him to pay attention in school. An older woman with gray streaks in her hair comments, “Well, we just let them waltz into the country without knowing anything about them! Seems a little reckless, don’t you think?”

The outside world intrudes in the form of Louann shouting, “The natives are getting restless!” You shoot a glance toward the doors to the dining area, and Harriet, bless her heart, says, “I’ll get it,” and hands you her phone before hurrying away. Your eyes stay glued to the screen in a sort of sick, resentful alarm.

The only interviewed person who’s against the proposed laws is clearly a bit of a ditz, and the few lines from her they’ve included in the segment sound ridiculous and naive.

They don’t interview any monsters.

The rest of your shift passes in a haze of cold dread.

* * * * *

It’s dark when you get off of work, and the lights of the little house are a welcoming beacon in the chill February night. You hurry to the door and pull it open, your first real smile in hours tugging at your lips. Papyrus is in the kitchen, simmering spaghetti sauce. The smell of browned sausage and herbs and tomato paste warms your heart, but not as much as the smile Papyrus gives you as he drops his spoon into the pot and charges up to give you a “welcome home” hug. You hug him back and then he places you on your feet again.

“WELCOME HOME, SISTER!” Papyrus gushes happily, and gestures grandly towards the kitchen and the simmering sauce. “WE ARE HAVING FRIENDSHIP SPAGHETTI FOR DINNER BECAUSE SANS HAS BEEN IN THE BASEMENT ALL DAY AND I WISH TO LURE HIM OUT. IT IS IMPOSSIBLE THAT HE WILL NOT BE DRAWN TO THE TABLE BY MY GREATEST PIECE OF NOODLY ART! NO ONE CAN RESIST IT!”

You laugh and admit, “I guess that’s true.” You think a moment before asking, “Is there a reason he’s been down there all day?”

“THERE IS NO POSSIBLE REASON FOR ANYONE TO SPEND AN ENTIRE DAY IN AN UNCOMFORTABLE CLUTTERED BASEMENT.”

“And yet…” you prompt, eyebrows raised.

Papyrus sighs. “SOMETIMES I THINK OUR BROTHER LIKES BEING UNCOMFORTABLE.” After a moment’s contemplation, he adds, “OR PERHAPS HE FOUND OUT I WANTED HIM TO VACUUM THE FLOORS.”

You shrug and fail to suppress a chuckle. “I’ll go get him,” you offer, and head for the door to Sans’s basement workshop.

You proceed down the steps cautiously, wary of startling Sans in case he’s in the middle of a delicate operation. He’s at the workbench, diagramming something. “Sans?” you say softly, trying to announce your presence as gently as possible.

Sans twitches and drops his pencil. You pick it up for him, and when you straighten he’s blushing, which brings a grin to your face. “Honestly, you are the _jumpiest_ person I’ve ever met,” you tell him, amused.

“‘cause you keep gettin’ the jump on me,” he says, and grins back at you.

“Papyrus is making friendship spaghetti.”

“yeah?” Sans grins more widely and takes a step past you, towards the stairs. You reach out and grab his sleeve, halting him and forcing him to turn back towards you a little. He looks at you in mild concern. “what’s up?”

You bite your thumbnail nervously. If Sans has been in his workshop all day, he may not have heard the most recent news. You’re not sure how to broach the subject, but you know you need to, so you awkwardly blurt out, “They want to segregate the monsters from the humans.” Sans’s pupils shrink in surprise.

“oh, yeah?” he asks. His tone of voice is still casual, but his body has tensed a little, and you can tell he’s mentally listing possible repercussions of this. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then reconsiders and closes it again.

“What?” you ask him.

“nothin’,” he replies. You narrow your eyes at him, but he gives you an artfully guileless look and you know he has no intention of sharing, so you don’t pry.

“They’re talking about registration, too,” you add instead, and are dismayed to hear your voice wobble a little. Sans hears it as well, and takes your hand from his sleeve, using it to draw you into a hug.

“don’t worry,” he murmurs by your ear. “nothing’s happened yet, right?”

“I guess not,” you admit, sighing and relaxing into the hug, bringing your arms up to grip his back gently. “But it will,” you continue stubbornly, and bury your nose in his hoodie, drawing comfort from his familiar scent.

“so we’ll deal with that when it happens,” Sans tells you, and gives you a squeeze. “right now, things are still going segre-great.”

“Augh!” You pull away and punch him lightly in the humerus. _“Why?”_

Sans shrugs, grinning. “i saw an opportunity, and i seized it.” You roll your eyes and follow him up the stairs, feeling a little better. While the future is full of uncertainty, the present is full of spaghetti, so you know which one you prefer to live in for the moment.

* * * * *

Dinner’s a cheerful affair and the good food and comfortable chatter help to ground you in the present. You’re still worried about the future, of course, but you’re able to push those worries to the back of your mind for a while and just enjoy spending time with your friends. One persistent doubt keeps intruding, however: does Papyrus know what’s happening? Someone should tell him. You glance at Sans several times over the course of the meal, but he keeps shooting you suppressive looks, wordlessly warning you not to involve his brother in this. When Papyrus gets up to take his plate to the sink, you lean over and hiss at Sans, “He’ll find out eventually! Shouldn’t we be the ones to tell him?”

“you tell him about this and he’ll fret himself into knots,” Sans whispers back. “he’ll know soon enough. why ruin his night?”

Papyrus comes back in then, humming the Ode to Joy, and pats you fondly on the shoulder on his way back to his place at the table. Sans pushes his own chair out and stands. Papyrus grabs him by the sleeve of his hoodie and forcibly sits him back down.

“NOT SO FAST, BROTHER.” You and Sans share a puzzled look. Papyrus continues as if he hasn’t noticed. “I AM CALLING A FAMILY MEETING. LITTLE DID YOU KNOW MY DELICIOUS SPAGHETTI DINNER WAS ALSO A CLEVER TRAP! YOU ARE NOW SO PARALYZED BY OVERWHELMING GRATITUDE THAT YOU HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO SIT HERE AND LISTEN TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY! NYEH-HEH-HEH!” The lanky skeleton attempts to strike a dramatic pose while sitting at the table. It’s not quite as dramatic as he’d likely prefer, but the effort he puts into it makes you smile.

“IT WAS BROUGHT TO MY ATTENTION TODAY THAT WE ARE SOON TO BE SEPARATED.”

Surprised, Sans looks toward you again. You hope you’re not giving him a smug look. From the resigned cast his face takes on, you suspect you probably are.

“Papyrus,” you start, “They can’t separate the humans from the monsters completely. That’s not really what segregation means.”

“YOU ARE WISE AND CLEVER, SISTER, AND WHAT YOU SAY IS TRUE. HOWEVER, THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT.” He leans over and places a bony hand on your shoulder, looking at you with uncharacteristic solemnity. “THIS IS NOT A GOOD TIME FOR YOU TO BE LIVING HERE.”

Shock rockets through you. “… What?” you manage after a moment.

“THIS IS NOT A GOOD TIME FOR YOU TO BE LIVING HERE,” Papyrus repeats obligingly. He continues as if he hasn’t just shot you through the heart: “I KNOW THIS IS VERY BAD NEWS, BUT IT IS ONLY UNTIL ALL THE FUSS DIES DOWN, AND THEN YOU CAN COME BACK HERE AND WE CAN ALL LIVE TOGETHER AND THINGS WILL BE NORMAL AND GOOD AGAIN.” You’re barely listening. You look towards Sans once again. His face is a mask of shock, mouth slack and eye sockets dark, probably similar to your own expression if you’re being honest. You don’t know what you’re hoping for from him: disagreement, maybe? A little help? But he looks from you towards Papyrus and nods slowly.

“checkers, you always planned to move out…” he starts, and you can’t bear to let him finish.

“You want me to leave?” Your voice trembles.

“uh…” Sans says, clearly at a loss in the face of your imminent tears.

“SISTER, WE DO NOT WANT YOU TO LEAVE!” Papyrus waves his hands frantically as if he can shoo away your dismay. “WE WISH ONLY FOR YOU TO BE SAFE! I HAVE ALREADY DEVISED SEVERAL CUNNING PLANS FOR US TO STAY IN CONSTANT CONTACT WHILE WE ARE APART, MANY OF THEM INVOLVING THE INTERNET. I AM QUITE POPULAR THERE,” he adds in a tone that suggests this piece of information should cheer you up.

“I…” One of the threatening tears escapes your eye and trickles down your cheek. You wipe it away as surreptitiously as possible. “I _did_ plan to move out eventually,” you admit in a small voice. “But…” You’re confused. Moving out _was_ the plan, right? So why does this hurt so much? You can feel a thoughtful frown pulling at your mouth. This feels wrong. What are the boys really saying? What do you really want? As you ask yourself the questions, you find the answers, and your voice grows strong again in protest. “But not now!” You’ve startled them. You hurry to explain before their surprise makes you anxious, makes you falter. “I can’t leave now! When all this is going on? It would be the same as running away!” Another tear gets away from you, sliding down your face. This time you ignore it. “I love you guys,” you say quietly, and you blush at the earnestness of the words. You look from Papyrus to Sans. The small skeleton looks like he’s just been shot with a bullet. “This is a time for solidarity,” you plead to him, appealing to his sense of rationality in the same way you just appealed to Papyrus’s soft heart. Is that manipulative? You’re not sure, but at this moment, you don’t really care. You mean everything you said. You can’t stay here if they insist, though, and you know that you need to stay with them. It’s time to choose sides, and you’ve chosen yours.

Papyrus looks from you to Sans, who seems paralyzed. To you, it looks like Sans is fighting with himself, and since he’s the more likely of the two to insist on pushing you out of their lives, you count that as a win.

Realizing no help will come from his brother (likely for either of you), Papyrus tries one final time to protect you from the coming trouble. “(Y/N), WE CANNOT ALLOW YOU TO BE HURT BECAUSE OF US. THAT WOULD NOT BE AT ALL GENTLEMANLY.”

“If you don’t want me hurt, then don’t send me away,” you respond quietly. Then you add, “If we were really a family, we’d all be in this together.” As the words leave your mouth, you feel a great weight of guilt for using “family” against Papyrus. One look at his face shows his eyes full of tears, expression stricken. Your eyes tear up more in response. You’re ashamed of yourself. But you can’t take it back, if that means losing the fight, if taking it back means leaving your friends, your _family,_ to face whatever’s coming without you. That, you _refuse_ to do.

“IF… BUT… WE _ARE_ A FAMILY! I MADE SPAGHETTI…” Papyrus’s voice trails off. He clicks his finger bones together, fidgeting in distress.

The final word comes, unexpectedly, from Sans. “if that’s your decision, we gotta respect that.” In your anxiety, it takes longer than it should to register that his voice is as devoid of emotion as his eyes are of light. Before you can respond, he adds, “don’t say we didn’t warn you.” With that, he pushes away from the table, stands, and walks out somewhat stiffly.

His eyes were still dark.

His voice was so empty.

He’s mad at you. He knows you took advantage of Papyrus’s sweetness to get what you wanted, that you played his brother against him, and he’s angry.

Then why didn’t he call you out on it?

You get up as well and give Papyrus a hug. He’s still seated, but between his almost ridiculous height and your own lack thereof, you make it work. Your “brother” sighs and squeezes you, and then says, “MY BRILLIANT PLAN DID NOT GO AS I EXPECTED.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and you mean it more than he knows.

“DO NOT BE SORRY, SISTER. _I_ AM SORRY! FOR A MOMENT THERE, I ALMOST FAILED TO RESPECT YOUR RIGHT TO MAKE YOUR OWN DECISIONS. BUT NOW THAT I AM LETTING YOU CHOOSE FOR YOURSELF, I CANNOT PROTECT YOU! I DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO.”

“I’ll do my best to keep myself safe,” you tell him, and give him a return squeeze. “I accept the consequences of my decision, okay? If I’m not yours to command, then I’m not yours to protect, either.”

“THAT IS PERHAPS TRUE, BUT I SHALL ENDEAVOR TO PROTECT YOU AS WELL AS I CAN REGARDLESS. THE GREAT PAPYRUS SHALL ALLOW NO HARM TO COME TO YOU!” This last is shouted at full volume, and you pull away, putting a hand to your ear and grimacing. “SORRY!” Papyrus shouts, and, though you’re still wincing, you give him a smile and a thumbs-up. Then you leave the kitchen, take the stairs, and follow the hall to Sans’s room. It occurs to you that it might be a good idea to let him stew for a while, but you just can’t bring yourself to leave things as they are.

You knock on the door, adding, “Knock knock,” a bit timidly.

You hold your breath until you hear, “who’s there?” Then you let it out in a relieved rush. If he’s playing along, he can’t be _that_ mad. Right?

“Lena,” you offer, trying to keep your voice from sounding too hopeful.

“lena who?”

“Lena little closer and I’ll tell you another joke.”

The door clicks open and you let yourself in. Sans walks from the door to the edge of the bed and sits down. “hey,” he ventures. There’s a note of caution in his voice.

“Hey,” you respond, and sit next to him. His eye lights are back, but they’re dim. They brighten a bit as they look at you, though. Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem angry anymore. You wish you knew what he was thinking. You cross your arms and nervously tap one forearm with the opposite set of fingers. You open your mouth to apologize.

“sorry,” Sans blurts out. Your mouth snaps shut. You blink at him, shocked.

“What are you sorry for?” You honestly have no idea what he’s talking about.

“i’m… look, i shouldn’t have… just, sorry.”

“Sans, I… I don’t know what you’re apologizing for. _I’m_ sorry,” you say in a rush. “I tried to manipulate you guys! Papyrus… I used _family_ against him!” You grip your forearms tightly, hunching over your knees. “I didn’t know what else to do,” you tell him in a small voice.

“that’s it. _that’s_ what i’m sorry for,” Sans says, gesturing at you. His pupils are growing steadily brighter, and you can feel yourself start to relax. “paps an’ i, we forced you into a corner. i, uh, i shouldn’ta let that happen. then when you did what you had to to get out of it, i got mad.” He shrugs, not looking at you. You notice he’s sitting in a position similar to yours, hunched in on himself. “couldn’t help it. you went for paps’s heart and i took it personally.”

“Of course you did. It was a dick move.” You turn to Sans, meeting his eyes. “I’m really sorry, okay?”

Sans smiles. “me too.” He stands and offers you a bony hand. You take it, and he pulls you to your feet.

“I think that might be the first time you’ve been angry with me,” you mention as Sans walks you the few steps to his bedroom door. You give him a small smile. “There wasn’t much to it.”

Sans shrugs and grins. “being angry takes too much energy. i’m not real good at it.”

“Thank god you’re not, or that argument would have gone a lot differently.” You lower your eyes for a moment, sorting through your emotions, and then look back up to meet his gaze. “I don’t care what’s coming. I’m not leaving you guys to face it alone.”

Sans’s stare intensifies, and he places a hand gently on your cheek. “(Y/N), you’re a blessing,” he says, voice low. You’ve heard it before, Sans has said this to you before, and hearing it now strikes your heart like an arrow. You close your eyes and lean forward, resting your forehead against Sans’s. You can feel his breath against your face, and your heart throbs in your chest. You open your eyes and catch his own with them. Sans is staring at you from only an inch away, eyes heavy-lidded. When your eyes meet his, he squeezes his sockets shut tightly, an expression very like pain crossing his features. The back of his bony cheek flexes as if he’s gritting his teeth, and slowly he eases away from you, leaving you a little unsteady. The click of the door latch brings you back to yourself. Sans opens his door and gestures for you to pass through, giving you a grin and a little bow like an old-fashioned gentleman. You huff a laugh, trying not to feel disappointed, and take a step outside.

“wait,” Sans says suddenly. You turn, hope springing. “… i was promised another joke,” the small skeleton says, standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

“Oh,” you say, struggling to sound normal and very aware that you suddenly don’t know how “normal” sounds. “Um, how does the Man in the Moon cut his hair?”

Sans shrugs, smiling.

“Eclipse it!”

Sans bursts out laughing. “good one!” he snickers, and you flush with pleasure. You love his laugh. You wish he’d let you hear it more often. His final snickers fade and he straightens, looking at you fondly. You might be imagining it, but you think he leans forward slightly, as if he’s being drawn to you, as he says quietly, “‘night, checkers.”

You smile back at him. “Goodnight, Sans.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **~ Author's Note ~**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I spent the last two months writing this chapter. Over. And over. And over. I'm so sick of this fuckin' chapter.
> 
> Also, I have some bad news. I'm calling a short hiatus so I can binge-read the Game of Thrones books. Expect maybe two months without updates. I'm sorry. But it has to be done.


	25. Colder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is entirely too much winter.

_ Sans _

Wow, the snow’s really piling up out there.

I’m sitting on the couch, turned halfway around and watching what the news is calling “a record February snowstorm” cover the world in a soft white blanket. Paps is at work, but I don’t know how much longer they’ll let him stay there: most of the small businesses in town are closing down, sending people home before the roads get too dangerous. They’re pretty bad already, and I watch with interest and a little concern as a car ambles by at about ten miles per hour, slewing slightly from side to side. Paps is s’posed to call me when he’s ready to come home, but maybe I should take the initiative. What if he tries to drive in this? I mean, we can pick his car up when the roads are better. There’s no reason for him to try and bring it home.

Yeah, I better go get him.

I ‘port out to Precious Pets and get a kick out of the way the puppies start to bark as soon as I show up. I can’t resist sticking my arm into their little pen on the floor and ruffling the fur of a couple. They go absolutely bonkers, swarming the front of the pen in irrepressible baby-dog joy. Heh. Puppies.

“SANS!” Paps comes up behind me and places an enormous hand on my head. “DO NOT RILE THEM UP! I JUST GOT THEM SETTLED DOWN!” I stand up, sorta wishing I could bring a puppy home with us. But, man, if we don’t have legal rights we could become homeless at any time, or worse.

Things have deteriorated rapidly since that little girl got hurt. It’s like the mere mention of segregation and registration drove home to some people that there are no laws protecting us. Several monsters have formed gangs with their friends now and are giving vigilante justice their best shot. Of course, this has only helped to convince people that monster gangs are something they should fear. I know Molly Moldsmal, who lives a couple towns over, recently had to move her family back to Ebott to live with her parents ‘cause some jerks threw bricks through a bunch of her windows and the house is currently too cold to live in, and way too sharp for a group of monsters that can’t wear shoes.

I sigh to myself. It’s time to see what I can find out about that little girl and the monster kids that hurt her. I’ve collected evidence of every “monster violence” incident I could get my hands on, and Alphys has copies of it all. Not all of it exonerates us: anger is what it is, after all, and we’re just as dangerous as humans when we don’t think before we act. Humans are often meaner than monsters, sure, and that weird thing they have where groups of them start to all feel the same way? That’s actually pretty creepy, that hive-mind thing they do. Not that I’m racist, or… or specist, or whatever. But, uh, that creeps me out. And thanks to their emotion-sharing thing, monster-hating humans are quickly becoming more common than human-hating monsters are. But all that still doesn’t equal the destructive power of a boss monster on a rampage, and we’re just lucky there aren’t any boss monsters involved yet.

‘Course, Undyne would throw herself right in if she was the sort to notice the prejudice, the drawn faces and muttered comments and the occasional stubborn refusal to sell us things or deal with us in any way. She’s great, don’t get me wrong, but she’s… well, she’s not the most observant monster on the planet, and she’s inclined to just brush things off as “humans being weird again.” Plus it seems like she doesn’t get much flak due to being a mass of muscle topped with a bad attitude, a piratical eyepatch, and a smile from hell. If only all of us were that scary. Molly Moldsmal would still have her house, for one thing. Then again, being scary is part of our problem, apparently. Maybe if we were all alarmingly Undyne-ish it would just make things worse.

It’s getting worse, regardless. Undyne’s bound to notice eventually.

Better ask Alphys to have a talk with her.

“we better go,” I tell Paps, glancing outside through the storefront windows at the wild white world. The snow-clouds are so thick it makes everything dim and grey, and the swirling flakes are the size of my knuckles.

“BUT THE CAR! LITTLE DAISY! WE CANNOT LEAVE HER HERE ALL ALONE!” Damn. Knew it. Good thing I showed up.

“she’ll be fine, paps,” I tell him, and on impulse I add, “the puppies’ll keep her company, and she likes the snow anyway.”

“SHE DOES?” Paps’s eyes are wide and innocent and so, so gullible.

“‘course she does. who doesn’t like snow?” I ask him. And he believes me. Thank god. “now go lock up and let’s go home.”

Paps locks the front door, I say goodbye to the puppies, Paps scolds me again, and then we’re off.

Home feels a lot warmer with Paps there.

“I’LL MAKE SOME HOT CHOCOLATE!” he gushes, and charges for the kitchen. I pull out my phone and dial the café.

“Java the Hut,” a cheerful voice singsongs. I feel a grin stretching across my face.

“hey, checkers. you guys closing early?”

“Sans!” Aww, she’s happy to hear me, too. “Yep, just finishing up.”

“i’ll come getcha, then.”

“Oh, uh, Roxy’s coming home with me. Is that okay?”

“heh. ‘course. i can take her to her house, too, if you want,” I offer, a little belatedly.

“I think we’d like to have a sleepover,” Checkers tells me, her voice a little too excited for somebody who’s about to be trapped at home for the duration of an extreme-weather emergency.

“uh, okay.” Not sure how well-prepared we are for a sleepover, but I guess I can always pick up supplies from the store and, well, and go back to pay for them when the place is open. Rather not, though.

I’ve been a little more cautious with my ‘porting recently. It seems prudent, being a little, non-scary monster in a world full of edgy humans, to appear as helpless as possible. Not hard, considering I’m like five feet small and live a life of general sloth, but I’ve never kept my shortcuts an actual _secret_ before. Sometimes I wonder if I should even bother hiding it, knowing how many people have seen it already. But, y’know, outta sight, outta mind. I hope.

“paps, i’m gonna pick up checkers.”

“OK! THERE WILL BE HOT CHOCOLATE AND BROWNIES APPROXIMATELY TWENTY MINUTES AFTER YOU RETURN!” my bro calls from the kitchen.

“sweet,” I say to myself, and am subsequently _way_ too amused for someone whose pun had no audience. “roxy’s comin’ over, too,” I add at a higher volume.

“OH, I LIKE THAT ROXY HUMAN!” Paps shouts back excitedly.

I chuckle as I step sideways into the empty space behind the world. I slide back into reality beside the big sink at the back of the café’s kitchen. Checkers, wiping down a long counter, turns as soon as I arrive, as if she sensed my presence. “Hey!” she says happily, and I grin in response.

“hey. happy snow day.”

“Sure is!” she chirps. Man, she’s in a really good mood.

“you really like snow, huh?” I ask the question before I can stop myself. I’ve become almost obsessed with learning everything there is to know about her.

“Doesn’t everybody?” She tosses the rag in a double sink near the counter, probably for dishes, and comes over to me.

I try not to study her face too hard, and say nonchalantly, “some people might think snow’s all cold and wet.”

“So are puppies’ noses,” Checkers says, still happy but also with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “And who doesn’t like those?”

“point,” I concede. I struggle with a decision for a moment: should I ask if the wetness and coldness are what make puppies’ noses likable, and possibly win an argument, or should I… “puppies, huh?” Goddammit, Sans.

She gives me an odd look. I shrug and try to look nonchalant. “Doesn’t everybody love puppies?” she says, sort of reiterating her previous statement. “I’m more of a cat person,” she admits. “How about you? Do you like cats?”

After a moment’s thought, I have to respond, “guess i don’t really know any.”

“Well, they’re great!” Checkers says enthusiastically. “At least… I s’pose it depends on the cat, to some degree,” she adjusts her statement. “A happy, well-adjusted cat is great. A stressed-out one… Well, maybe it has more to do with the home than the animal,” she finishes.

“just like dogs,” I agree, stupidly happy to be learning so much about Checkers in this conversation. I take those dumb happy feelings and squeeze them into a little ball and imagine myself chucking them in the garbage disposal. It only helps a little, but it’s enough to keep me from being obvious about my feelings. I hope.

“What’s that thing they say?” Checkers muses, taking a couple steps closer to me and leaning against the wall by the freezer. “A pet becomes perfect when you learn to accept it for what it is?”

“hard to buy that when it’s destroying your shoes.” I smirk.

“Or peeing in them.” Checkers grins.

We’re still smiling at each other when Roxy comes flouncing into the kitchen, pushing a mop bucket. I tear my eyes away from Checkers and give Rox a wave. Hope I’m not blushing; I honestly have no idea how long I stood there smiling dopily at Checkers just ‘cause she was smiling at me.

“Sleepover!” Roxy singsongs, and dumps the mop bucket in the big sink I’m standing next to. I get splashed with dirty mop water. I feel like it’s divine retribution for being the world’s biggest bonehead. “Oops, sorry,” Roxy says, a little more subdued.

“water ya sorry for? i know ya like to make a splash.”

“I take it back. I hate you and everything you stand for,” Roxy snarks. I snicker.

“Is that it? Are we done?” Checkers asks, and flicks the lights off. The emergency lights stay on, shrouding the kitchen in shadows. Checkers stiffens suddenly and crosses her arms. I tense in sympathy: she’s told me the emergency lighting at work freaks her out now. After a moment she starts tapping her fingers against her arms, tippety-tappety-tap, and she seems to calm down a bit. It’s become a little trick of hers to stave off panic attacks. Grounds her in reality, she says.

“All finished!” Rox chirps, and grabs me around the neck. “C’mon, let’s go!” she shouts to Checkers.

“uh, doesn’t work like that,” I tell her. “it’s a one-at-a-time thing.”

“Oh.” Roxy pouts a little.

“yeah,” I elaborate. “distance doesn’t matter, really, but mass does. three’s one two many.”

“Was… that… ARGH!” Roxy groans in dismay as the pun registers. Checkers giggles. She liked that one, huh? I feel my cheekbones warm and I’m suddenly grateful for the dim lighting. I give Checkers a wink and offer her my hand, thinking she wouldn’t like to stay here by herself, even for a second. She shrugs and gestures for me to take Roxy first, smiling at her friend’s enthusiasm.

A little anxious myself, I pop back to the house with Rox, who immediately releases my neck and shouts, “Papyrus!”

“FRIEND ROXY!” I hear from the kitchen as I slip back into the café. I chuckle.

Checkers is still standing where we left her, and as she comes to me I have to fight the urge to shy away from her, and the equally powerful temptation to lean into her when she puts her arms around my neck. Her whole body presses into me and her breath warms the side of my skull. My arms come up and wrap around her, holding her to me. I want this to last forever. Oh, god, she’s gonna notice she’s gonna notice…

I clamp down on my feelings and pull Checkers into our living room, desperate to put a little space between us before I do something I’ll regret. There’s a slight reluctance, though, in the way she disengages from me. She draws back slowly, gazing at my face, a little smile dancing on her lips. My fingertips slide across her sides as she steps backwards, and for a second her shirt catches, hitches up, and one of my fingers skims the skin just above her waistband. I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear. It just happened. I yank my hand away like she burned me. “sorry,” I mumble. _She’s so soft,_ my mind insists on interjecting. _Shut up,_ I tell it.

“It’s okay,” Checkers says breathily, looking a little wide-eyed and dazed. She puts her hand to the spot I touched and slowly, delicately pulls her shirt back down.

“Brownies!” comes a voice from the kitchen.

“BROWNIES!” Paps’s voice echoes Roxy’s, for some reason just as excited, even though the brownies were his idea and he can’t possibly be surprised. “BROWNIES!”

“Brownies brownies!”

“Uhh…” Checkers glances towards the kitchen. “I see we’re having cake.”

I snort and have to stifle my laughter with my sleeve. Ugh, it’s all wet and funky from the mop water accident. “eurgh,” I say blandly, and pull my hoodie off. Checkers takes a step closer to me and gently pulls the jacket out of my hands.

“I’ll wash it,” she offers. Best friend ever. She looks down at my t-shirt and sees it’s got a wet spot, too. “And that,” she states as if she’s giving an order. I gaze at her for a moment more, and as I realize what she wants, heat surges through my body. _Oh, come on,_ I scold myself, struggling to calm my soul. _She’s seen you shirtless before._ Then, absurdly, it hits me that, yes, she’s seen me without a shirt, and not once did she look at me with desire. A ridiculous feeling of irritation bites at me, and instead of chasing away my own wants, it crams itself in alongside them. _It doesn’t mean anything to her, does it?_ One of my brows twitches. _Fine then._ I’m still staring at her, and she’s looking at me with just a touch of curiosity, probably wondering why I’m just standing here, doing nothing. I maintain eye contact as I finally grip the bottom of my t-shirt and slowly peel it up and off. Pretty sure I don’t have a shine-on; I wouldn’t have dared do this if I thought it would be really indecent. But, fuck, I’m standing here in just my pants in front of the girl I like, the girl I _want,_ and for once she’s blushing, and she’s looking at me with the strangest expression on her face, like she’s never seen me shirtless before, like somehow my body is brand-new to her. I can feel my face growing warm along with the rest of me. I’m blushing now, but I still don’t look away. I feel like there’s a magnetic current pulling at me, trying to drag me across those few empty feet to close the distance between myself and Checkers. _What am I doing? This isn’t like me. This is nuts!_ I can still feel her warm skin at the tip of my finger. Checkers reaches out and slowly draws the shirt from my hand, still staring into my eyes, and I have this crazy impulse to not let it go, just to see if I can prolong this strange, silent moment.

I let the shirt slip through my fingers.

My feelings are nuts, but _I’m_ not. Not yet, anyway.

“thanks,” I tell her. My voice is a little hoarse.

“Go get a shirt,” she tells me, and finally averts her eyes. “It’s cold out there.”

“yeah,” I concur, and head for the stairs. I deliberately don’t mention that the room feels hot as hell right now. Shit. Maybe a cold shower will put things back into perspective.

* * * * *

I wasn’t kidding about the shower: I ran the water so cold, and stood under it so long, that my bones are rattling now. I try to fight the waves of shivers that are swarming outward from my core as I pull on a nice, warm sweatshirt. _So warm._ I shiver again, and clutch at the front of the sweatshirt as if I can hold the heat in. Man. Maybe that wasn’t so good for me.

I head downstairs and am met with Checkers coming up, carrying a couple mugs of hot chocolate and balancing a plate of warm brownies on the crook of her arm. I take the brownies from her, carefully, so as not to disrupt the equilibrium of the fragile system.

“pure talent,” I comment, grinning. A shiver tries to force its way out. I ruthlessly clamp it down. Last thing I need is Checkers asking why I’m so cold.

“Waitress-style,” she responds, giving me that beautiful smile. Then she looks at my sweater and laughs. I glance down. Oh, hey, it’s the skeleton sweatshirt she gave me for Christmas. Heh. I look back up at her, grinning. She shakes her wrist a little, and a gold chain falls out of her sleeve. I chuckle. She’s wearing the charm bracelet. We take a moment to smile goofily at each other. Then Checkers shrugs and says, “If you’re done up here, we should go join the others.”

“‘kay.” We head down to the living room, where Paps and Roxy’re starting a movie. “what’re we watching?” I ask them, and liberate my hot chocolate from Checkers. She uses her newly-freed hand to get a brownie from the plate I’m carrying. I sip from my mug, and am startled at the heat of the drink. I can feel a trickle of powerful warmth tracing the contours of my bones as the molecules turn to magic and flow through me, but the contrast shows me just how cold I really am. This time, I can’t suppress a shiver. Luckily, nobody notices.

“The Thief and the Cobbler,” Roxy tells me cheerfully from her spot on the couch. “Be warned, it’s an unfinished thing. A lot of it didn’t get animated, so they plugged in concept drawings instead. But it’s amazing! You gotta see it!”

“Oh, yeah,” Checkers says, as if remembering something. “You had a big crush on Tack, huh?” Roxy giggles. Checkers continues, “Come to think of it, your current boyfriend’s the silent type, too. Maybe you have a thing for quiet guys.”

Roxy scowls. “Hush, you. It’s not a thing; it’s a condition.”

I plunk myself down on the couch as the girls dissolve into giggles, and after a moment, Checkers squeezes in between Rox and me. As Paps hits the lights to give this a “night at the movies” feel, I catch Checkers shooting me a worried glance. Her leg is pressed to mine, and she feels so much warmer than usual. She leans over and whispers, so quietly that I doubt Roxy even notices, “Are you okay? You feel cold.”

“‘m fine,” I whisper back. “don’t worry ‘bout it.” I feel a creeping guilt taint my enjoyment of Checkers’s touch. I’m a terrible friend and I’m ashamed of myself. Especially after that… whatever that was with the shirt. Seduction for the Romantically Inept. God, what was I thinking? Selfish, stupid asshole. We can’t even… You know what? The physical stuff isn’t even the worst part. Even if I could give her what a human mate could, the shirt thing was a terrible idea. What if… what if I’d gotten what I… what I wanted? What then? God, I’ve got nothing to offer her. _Nothing._ Nothing but a short-lived miserable relationship with a short miserable guy who’ll make _her_ miserable, too. And maybe bring some stigma to the table. What would it be like for her, out there in the wider world, if she was dating a monster? She deserves to be happy. Shit, if she _does_ like me back… I’m treading on very thin ice, here. I’m not as dumb as I look. I’ve noticed that I have control problems when she’s around. If we start something… (my soul clenches and throbs in a wordless _yes_ I can’t suppress) … If we start something, I could bond with her. Accidentally. Then she’d never be free of me.

Assuming she can bond.

Oh goddammit, I just fuckin’ confused myself. _There’s_ something I’ll never know how to feel about.

Anyway.

That shirt thing. I hate myself for that shirt thing.

When I got into that freezing shower, so cold it was downright painful, I welcomed it as if the discomfort could negate the wrong I’d just done. I stayed in it until I started to go numb. Didn’t get out ‘till the suffering stopped, suggesting the real point of the exercise was to punish myself. Stupid. Maybe this persistent chill is divine retribution for being the world’s biggest asshole.

Well, whatever I’ve done to myself, I’m sure some warm sweet things and cozy couch time will fix it. I sip my cocoa again as if I can force that to be true.

Checkers takes my cold hand in her warm one and leans against me, lending me her heat. Pleasure and guilt fight inside me like a couple’a angry dogs. I shiver again. Then I sneeze.

“shit! what the hell?” bursts out of my mouth before I can stop it. While not entirely unpleasant, that was all kinds of alarming. Everyone’s turned to look at me. I sneeze again.

“I THOUGHT ONLY HUMANS DID THAT,” Paps says curiously.

“obviously not,” I grump. My throat is starting to get this strange gluey sort of feeling, and now my body can’t seem to decide whether it’s cold (from the chill at its core) or hot (probably due to the room’s temperature being so much higher than mine). “y’know what?” I say, and pull my hand away from Checkers’s as I stand up. I ruffle her hair a little to take any rejection out of the gesture. She slaps at my hand. I grin. “this is a sleepy sorta day,” I continue, glancing out the window. It’s midday, but the storm clouds are so thick it looks almost like evening. Snow is blowing almost sideways in the wind that’s whipped up, and damn if it doesn’t actually make me tired. “i’m’a take a nap,” I finish, and head for the stairs.

“Oh, okay,” I hear behind me, and the disappointment in Checkers’s voice is almost enough to make me turn around and go back. Instead, I turn just long enough to give her a grin and finger guns, and then head up the stairs.

Don’t wanna worry anyone. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just gotta hide out ‘till everything’s back to normal.

As my door clicks shut behind me, I stifle another sneeze with the sleeve of my hoodie. Ugh. Sneezing ain’t that bad, but I can tell it’ll get old real fast.

I bury myself in a pile of blankets and try to leave the world behind.

_ You _

It’s still pretty gloomy outside, and the snow is still falling in heavy bursts, but Papyrus and Roxy clearly couldn’t resist the opportunity, so after the movie, the three of you came outside to play in the snow. It’s getting really deep; there are drifts that are almost up to your knees already. The streets are silent and empty, but the lights in all the houses are on, so you don’t feel as alone out here as you might have otherwise. The strange twilit ambiance and the soft “shh” sound of the falling snow are really, and you hate yourself for thinking this, pretty “cool.”

If Sans was here, you’d share the pun. Ah, well, he’d probably have beat you to it, anyway.

You’ve got to admit you’re enjoying this. Papyrus and Roxy are working on a snowman that, for reasons only they understand, looks like Papyrus but with bulging snow “muscles.” Roxy’s happy giggles and Papyrus’s loud NYEH-HEH-HEHs entertain you as you walk around the yard quietly, putting footprints into the pristine snow with both deliberation and satisfaction. The temperature is just barely high enough to help the snow stick together: the snow-Papyrus your friends are working on is looking surprisingly good, but on the downside, you’re all developing a frosty buildup on heads and shoulders that’s starting to make you feel a little heavy and damp. No matter how much snow you get tonight, it won’t last more than a few days if the temperature doesn’t drop.

You reach a large patch of untouched snow and flop onto your back in it. You lie there peacefully for a moment, letting the large flakes of snow speckle your face and melt into chilly rivulets that run down your cheeks.

You make a snow angel.

Then you lie in it listlessly, missing Sans.

_Miss him? That’s crazy. I just saw him!_ you scold yourself. You’d invite him to come outside with the rest of the group, but you’re a little worried about him, and you don’t want to disturb his rest.

“Y/N! Y/N! COME SEE WHAT WE MADE!” Papyrus’s excited shout, followed by Roxy’s enthusiastic, “We sure did make that!” brings your attention back to the moment at hand. You sit up from your snow angel to give them your attention.

They’ve made not only a muscly Papyrus, but a muscly Sans, a muscly Roxy, and a muscly you, as well. Wow, they’re fast. And pretty talented, too.

“Why are we so buff?” you have to ask.

“BECAUSE IT IS BEST TO BE BUFF, AND WE ARE THE BEST!” Papyrus enthuses. Then he flexes for you, as if he’s forgotten he doesn’t actually have muscles. Roxy laughs and flexes, too. You chuckle.

“Let’s go in,” you suggest. “It’s getting colder.”

As the three of you enter the living room, shaking snow off your coats, you hear a faint, muffled sneeze from Sans’s room. Unconsciously, your hand lifts to your chest, as if you can still the anxious flutter of your heart. He seemed all right when he went to his room, but you can’t help worrying, all the same. If sneezing isn’t normal for monsters, is something happening to him? Is he getting sick? Should you bother him, or let him rest? He’d tell you if he needed help, right?

… No. No he wouldn’t.

As Papyrus and Roxy head to the kitchen to warm some more hot cocoa, you take the stairs to the upper floor and head down the short hall to Sans’s room. You knock gently.

“Knock knock,” you add, a little late.

In the room, you hear the rustling of blankets. “who’s there?” The voice is a little off, somehow, rough and tired, but not in that “just woken up” way that you’ve grown accustomed to.

“Icy.”

“icy who?”

You crack the door open and pop your head inside. “Icy you’re too lazy to answer the door.”

Sans snickers and pulls the blankets down so he can see you. He’s piled on several comforters, but his face is a little drawn and his normal clean ivory coloring has given way to an unhealthy paper-white pallor.

“Are you still cold?” you ask, coming into the room. He opens his mouth to respond, but answers instead with a sneeze. You feel his forehead, and then place your other hand on the side of his face in alarm. “You’re like ice! Sans, are you sick?”

“not sure. maybe,” he answers. “never been sick before. it’ll be a new sick-sperience.”

You groan. “Well, you can’t be that bad-off, if you’re making jokes like that one.” Sans chuckles, and then shivers. He pulls the covers up to his ear-holes.

“‘m sure it’ll work itself out,” he says casually. “gonna try ’n’ sleep it off.”

“I don’t like how cold you are,” you tell him frankly. “Sometimes humans get fevers when they’re sick, and…” Catching Sans’s curious look, you interrupt yourself with, “We get too hot.”

His brows raise in interest, and he lets out a short, involuntary “hmm.”

“Anyway, letting a fever go uncared-for can really hurt us, even kill us,” you finish. “If your chill is the same way… Well, we have to try and get your body temperature back to normal.”

“good luck with that,” Sans tells you. “i don’t even know why it’s so low in the first place.”

You touch his forehead again, and shiver in sympathy. _No._ This is unacceptable. You’re not going to let him brush this off, and you’re not going to let a lack of knowledge stand in your way. _By god,_ you think to yourself as you head for the door, throwing a “Be right back,” over your shoulder, _I’m going to help, or die trying._

_ Sans _

I have to chuckle again at the determination in Checkers’s face as she practically storms out of the room.

Oh, man, chuckling kinda hurts.

My throat hurts.

So does my head.

_Everything_ kinda hurts, to tell the truth.

And having Checkers here helped, weirdly, even though I didn’t wanna worry her in the first place.

She comes back in a few with a hot mug of tea, intent on making me drink it. “checkers, you don’t gotta…” I start, trying to fend her off with one hand while I pull the blankets to my chin with the other.

“Hush, you,” she says back, and sits on the edge of my bed. She presses the mug into my hand.

“i prefer coffee,” I mutter, a bit grumpy from being babied. I take a sip of the tea. Surprisingly, it _does_ help. It’s sweet and soothing, weirdly warm and cool at the same time, and almost instantly my throat feels a little better.

“Caffeine’ll dry you out. This is mint tea with honey. It’s good for colds.”

“hmm.” I take another sip. The heat from the drink is pouring into me in a way the hot chocolate from before didn’t. It’s too soon to feel hopeful, but I at least feel a little less chilled. “is colds a human sickness?” Sure sounds like what I’ve got.

“Yeah, though strangely they usually involve a fever, so we’re too hot during the cold.”

Ah, it’s plural. I feel dumber than usual. But, uh, whoever named “colds” might be even dumber than me.

I finish the tea while Checkers keeps me company. She does most of the talking on account of I don’t have any energy. When she tells me Paps gave us all snow doppelgängers, I’m not surprised, but when she adds that he also gave us all bulging muscles, I laugh so hard I choke on my tea. When I recover, I have to ask, “did he make me any taller?”

Checkers laughs. “Nope. He seemed to think the only things we need to be perfect are more muscles.”

“nice to hear i’m practically perfect, anyway.” I shrug and finish my tea. Checkers feels my forehead again as she takes the mug back with her other hand.

“Still cold,” she says worriedly, and looks at me like I might know what to do next.

I shrug. “don’t look at me. i’m the only monster i know that’s been sick.” Then I sneeze again. Goddammit, that hurts too, now. I think I do feel a little less chilled after the tea, anyway. Though that could just be ‘cause Checkers made it.

‘Cause… Checkers…

Oh goddammit.

Toriel’s voice echoes in my ears, a shadow of something she said at her New Year’s Eve party. _It is the malice that hurts us, really._ That shower. I took that shower to _punish_ myself. I wanted to hurt.

It wasn’t the shower that did this. It was my feelings about myself.

_How in the world am I supposed to fix THAT?_

Checkers’s face has tightened a little, and as I watch, a tear escapes her eye and trickles down her cheek. “hey,” I say, concerned. “what’s all that about?” My acknowledgement allows her to both wipe the tear away and make a bunch more. Guess she hoped I wouldn’t notice she was crying.

“Wh-what am I supposed to do?” she asks, wiping her eyes some more. “Sans, what’s happening? What if you’re _dying?”_ A sob escapes her. I feel like a heel. I didn’t just hurt myself with that stupid shower. Looks like I hurt Checkers, too.

I get a little colder. I shiver. Checkers cries some more. “checkers, i’m not dying,” I tell her, desperate to make her feel better. The truth is, I don’t remember how to like myself, and while I don’t think this’ll kill me, my soul shrivels as I realize this might not go away. Since Sick Sans is even more miserable than Normal Sans, the thought’s fuckin’ discouraging.

I reach for Checkers, intending to comfort her, when the door bursts open, slamming against the wall so hard it bounces closed again. “BR-AAH!” Paps is cut off when the door hits him in the face.

“brah?” I ask, grinning. “is ‘brother’ too many syllables now?”

“WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING IN BED? YOU HAVE MISSED ALMOST THE ENTIRE SLEEPOVER SO FAR! AND (Y/N), YOU HAVE BEEN UP HERE A LONG TIME! YOU ARE ABOUT TO MISS THE PILLOW FIGHT!”

“No she’s not!” Roxy’s voice comes from behind Paps, and a throw pillow sails over Paps’s shoulder and flops onto the bed near Checkers’s knee.

“Missed me,” Checkers says, laughing, trying to wipe her tears away before anyone can see them.

“It’s hard to aim over Papyrus,” Roxy replies, sounding sulky.

“Sans is sick,” Checkers announces.

“i’m fine,” I say. I sneeze again.

“THAT IS SILLY, (Y/N). MONSTERS DO NOT GET SICK.”

“see? monsters don’t get…hah-choo! … sick.” Oh for the love of…

Paps squints at me. “BROTHER, YOU DO LOOK UNHEALTHY. DO YOU FEEL UNHEALTHY?” He comes over and gasps. “YOU LOOK AWFUL!” Then he pats my head. “YOU FEEL VERY COLD ALSO! ARE YOU HURT?”

“i’m not hurt, paps, i’m really okay, don’t make this into a big deal.”

“YOU ARE NOT EVEN PUNNING! THIS IS VERY SERIOUS! I SHALL CALL HER MAJESTY RIGHT AWAY!”

Alarm shoots through me at the possibility of Paps convincing Tori to come out in a snowstorm. I could always go pick her up, but this whole thing is fuckin’ embarrassing, and really, I don’t want her here. Besides, I have to admit to myself, my magic feels a little funky right now. It might be unpredictable. It might not even work. There’s a distinct possibility that all my energy is going towards trying to heal myself. I groan. “paps, don’t. seriously.”

He must hear the warning in my voice, ‘cause he relents, a little sulkily. “HER MAJESTY WOULD WANT TO HELP.”

“her majesty can’t get here right now,” I reply irritably.

Paps huffs. “I AM ONLY TRYING TO HELP. YOU ARE BEING VERY UNGRATEFUL.”

Remorse stabs at me, and I feel my body temperature plummet. “s-sorry, paps, i’m j-just being a grump.” I’ve started to shiver, and this time, it’s not stopping. For the first time, I start to feel afraid. What if this _can_ kill me? And, you know, what if this time it’s permanent?

Checkers shoots an anxious look at Roxy, who’s peeking out from behind Paps, looking worried. “Rox, you okay over there? Think you can enjoy the sleepover without me for a while?”

“Yeah, of course,” Roxy says, and grabs Paps by the hand. “Let’s go have that pillow fight. It’s a sleepover! Entertain me!” By the look on Rox’s face, Checkers has given her some sort of signal. _Give Sans some space,_ or something like that.

“BUT I AM WORRIED ABOUT MY BROTHER!”

“i’ll be fine, paps,” I reassure him. “humans get sick all the time, and then they get better, right? remember when (y/n) threw up in the trash can?” Checkers winces.

“OH, YES, THAT WAS DISGUSTING AND FASCINATING! AND I SUPPOSE SHE DID GET BETTER. AND I WOULD BE A POOR HOST IF I LEFT FRIEND ROXY TO ENTERTAIN HERSELF SO I COULD SPEND THE EVENING WATCHING SANS REGURGITATE.” Then he looks at me curiously like he thinks it might happen. He _knows_ we don’t do that, so I’m not sure what he’s hoping for. _‘Course,_ I remind myself, _he also knows we don’t get sick, and look at me now._

Paps reluctantly follows Roxy when she leaves. I hear him suggesting “get well spaghetti” as the door shuts behind him. Checkers turns back to me.

“You know something about this,” she accuses.

I’ve been trying so hard not to lie to her recently, ‘cause 1) she deserves the truth from me after all she’s done for me, and 2) she’s weirdly adept at seeing right through me. If I tell her I don’t know what’s happening, she’ll somehow know that _I_ know I’m a big fat fibber. I try a shrug.

Checkers narrows her eyes at me.

Eh, whatever. I’m too miserable right now to fight her on this. I feel a humiliated blush rising on my face as I force the words out: “i don’t like myself very much.” My voice is so low even I can barely hear it.

Checkers blinks. “That… uhh… that kinda came out of nowhere.” I look away from her, towards the wall, trying to hide my shame. Why am I so weak? “I mean, I know you don’t feel good about yourself,” Checkers continues, and I have to look back at her in surprise. Then a little huff of laughter puffs out of me. Heh. Yeah, of course she knew. “I don’t see what that has to do with you being sick, though,” she finishes.

“self-malice,” I say in almost a whisper. “i think i hurt myself by hating myself.” _No way_ am I telling her about the trigger for all this, that goddamn shower. That would mean admitting I… well. That I want to take her to bed, put my hands all over her, and basically beg her to sit on my face and/or any number of ridiculous humiliating things. _No fuckin’ way._ I’ll take it to my grave.

I expect Checkers to come up with some banal thing like, _Well, you just have to start liking yourself ‘cause you’re so very, very likable,_ or something else useless like that. If I could start liking myself just by trying, I’d have done it a long time ago. I glance up at her, bracing myself for the awful feeling of desolate isolation that comes from receiving that peculiar combination of pity and lack of understanding. When the people closest to you just can’t understand, but they still think they do, well, nothing makes you lonelier.

Checkers leans over and kisses me on the cheek, and her lips are wet with her tears.

… Not what I was expecting. She’s… she’s _crying_ for me. That’s not pity. It’s something… more raw. More _real._ And, “Then I’ll have to like you enough for both of us,” she says, and kisses me on the other cheek.

Okay, I’m definitely resembling a big toothy tomato right about now. And… I… I feel warmer. I look up and meet her eyes, and she sees my surprise and confusion immediately.

“It’s all about intent, right?” she asks, and kisses me on the forehead. And damn if all this isn’t starting to chase the chill away. Holy hell, she’s figured it out. She’s figured out how to fix the dumbass thing I did: she’s fighting hate with love.

How’m’I supposed to respond to this?

“you don’t haveta…” I start, trying to pull up the blankets to cover my face. I’m starting to feel mildly panicked. Checkers smirks playfully, grabs one of my hands, and kisses it.

“You’re the smartest person I know,” she says as she drops it. She reaches for my other hand and I try to jerk it away, but my reflexes are shit right now and it gets tangled in the wads of plush comforter. Checkers lays one on me, right on the knuckle.

“You know how to make me laugh,” she says, and I expect her to drop this hand, too, but when I try to pull it away, she hangs on. She turns it over and kisses the cupped center of it. “People are always comfortable around you. That’s an amazing talent.” I give up the fight and collapse back onto my pillow, trying to look annoyed and resigned but feeling incredibly flustered, yet warmer than I’ve been for hours. I suppress a smile at the thought, not wanting Checkers to think I’m enjoying this at all, even though I think she probably knows my attitude is bullshit. I just keep thinking, _magic kisses,_ and struggling not to chuckle. Or kiss her back. One of those. Checkers picks up my other hand and starts alternating between the two, and now each kiss comes with a compliment and I can’t look at her anymore, I can’t cope with all this, I just _can’t._ Something huge and overwhelming is moving in me, and I don’t know how to deal with it.

Kiss. “You have a great voice.”

Kiss. “And a beautiful smile.”

“You always think of others first.”

“I love spending time with you. We share so many interests.”

“You’re the best at Mario Kart. Don’t laugh, it matters.”

“You’re so deeply kind. It’s… it’s humbling. It really is.”

When did I start crying? My blush has faded, and my face is wet with tears, and I’m laughing a little, too, as Checkers leans over me and kisses the protrusion of bone just above my nasal cavity. I choke on my laughter as my perspective shifts suddenly and I realize how close she is to me, physically and emotionally, and she pulls back a little and looks into my eyes with that knowing, mischievous smile, and I suddenly think, _I love her,_ and I know it’s true. God, I _do._ I love her. I love her so much. I squeeze my eyes shut as my face crumples, tears flowing freely now.

Checkers lays down beside me and kisses my cheek once more. “How do you feel?” she asks gently.

Weak. Desperate. Raw. Full of love. More honest than usual. But not _that_ honest.

“warmer,” I tell her. It’s the truth. And it’s good enough, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~ Author's Note ~**
> 
> I know I said I was taking a break, but I've decided I really don't like that last chapter, and I didn't want to leave the story on that note, so here's the next chapter, and I'm starting my short hiatus NOW. Yes. RIGHT NOW. See y'all in February and I'm serious this time. Probably.


	26. Truth or Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which friendship and affliction are difficult to distinguish from one another._

_ You _

 

Sans won’t let you stay with him. He keeps encouraging you to join Roxy and Papyrus with a mild sort of determination that feels, each time, like a soft shove, gentle attempts to move you to arm’s length. You’re inclined to ignore these attempts, but you’re balanced on the very thin line between nurturing and coddling, and you know Sans needs to feel independent. So after a few minutes of lying next to him, sharing your presence and enjoying his, you release his hand and draw away, and allow yourself to drift downstairs. Sans will follow when he’s ready. Right now, your other friends require your attention.

Roxy and Papyrus are preparing to go back outside when you arrive in the living room. The afternoon is waning and it won’t be long before the light is too dim to see by. A few blocks away, by the café, the streetlights have already come on, but this house is too far from the last of them to benefit from the light they provide, so you’ll have to get your playtime in before dark.

Roxy shouts your name joyously and bounds up to give you a hug.

“HOW IS MY BROTHER?” Papyrus inquires.

“He’s okay,” you tell them both, pulling your snow boots out of the hall closet. “He’s feeling better.” You have a sudden, powerfully tactile flashback to the feeling of his bones beneath your lips and your heart stutters. Your stomach twists pleasurably and you turn quickly back to the closet, rummaging for a dry pair of gloves, taking more time than necessary to give your blush time to die down.

“THE NEIGHBOR CHILDREN ARE HAVING A SNOWBALL FIGHT!” Papyrus yells excitedly. “PERHAPS WE CAN JOIN THEM!” He tries to charge for the door, but Roxy grabs him by the scarf and hauls him backwards.

“Coat! You need a coat!” she laughs, and shoves him at the closet. You vacate the spot just in time: another second and Paps would have collided with you. You shrug into your own coat, standing next to Roxy, and chew your thumbnail pensively. Your friend watches you watching Papyrus as he gropes in the closet for his poofy pink jacket, and finally asks, “What’s up?”

You huff a small sigh and give Roxy a slightly sad smile. “Paps always wants to play with the neighbor kids, but they run inside when they see him. They’re scared of him.”

Roxy frowns indignantly. “Well, that’s just… they’re just…” She struggles to express herself, getting visibly more agitated as she gropes for words. Finally she explodes with a shout of, “Take this, brats!” and charges out the door. You and Papyrus exchange a startled look and then race after her.

Roxy is already hurling snowballs indiscriminately at the kids across the street. The children have forgotten their own little war in the face of this new threat and have banded together to fight as one. As you watch, Roxy takes a snowball to the face and staggers backward, red-cheeked and spluttering. She screams something indistinct that you suspect was, “I’m’a get youuuuu!!!” and scoops up more ammo, but by then, two more snowballs have exploded against her jacket. Papyrus hoots excitedly and quickly grabs a handful of snow, forming it as he runs, long legs carrying him across the yard in seconds. He’s thrown three before the children, focused on the strange, silly adult human, notice the new attacker. It’s rather an odd oversight, you think to yourself, as Papyrus is not only strange and silly but also seven feet tall. He charges to Roxy’s defense, and the bombardment from the children falters; he’s caught them in the heat of battle, and they’re not in the right state of mind to run away. This causes them a few seconds’ confusion as their minds try to catch up to the change in circumstances. Little eyes widen and little bodies tense.

They’re going to run again.

You can’t let that happen.

As quickly as you can, you make a snowball and lob it at Papyrus’s head. It sails perfectly (almost a miracle for you as your poor aim has been a running gag since you were a child) and poufs against his cheekbone. He squawks and staggers comically, and then turns to you, indignant. “Ambush!” you shout, laughing, and chuck another snowball at him. A few of the kids giggle.

“AN AMBUSH, EH? FRIEND ROXY, TO ME! LET US SHOW THESE FOES THE MIGHT OF TEAM PAPYRUS!” Papyrus makes a show of flexing his nonexistent muscles. You throw a third snowball at him. He flinches and yelps as it sails between his ribcage and his pelvis, missing his spine by an inch. “NYEH HEH HEH!” he gloats. “MISSED ME!” This time, the laughter from the children is much louder.

When the first child throws a snowball at the tall skeleton, you know you’ve won.

Papyrus is suddenly at the center of a flurry of snowballs coming at him from all directions. The kids are laughing and shouting again and you and Roxy probably sound much the same. You play along with the new paradigm for a minute or so, until you judge the time right to call…

“Time out!” You hold up your hands, making a T-shape, and call again, “Whoa, hold it, time out!” The action stops. Papyrus actually freezes in the middle of a fall, one hand on the ground to support himself as he looks at you expectantly. The kids giggle again. You point at them. “This isn’t fair. The teams need to be even. Three of you guys should go be on Papyrus’s team.” You gesture to the kids, who debate among themselves. It’s clear they’re afraid to get close to the skeleton, but now that they’re at least a little familiar with him, they’re even more afraid of looking like cowards in the eyes of their peers. Finally, a little boy is “volunteered” via a far-from-unanimous decision, and two older children, a girl and another boy, elect to come with him immediately. The three look somewhat alike; you suspect they may be siblings.

“HELLO!” Papyrus shouts cheerfully as the children approach. “I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS AND THIS IS MY FRIEND ROXY. WHAT ARE YOUR NAMES?”

The three kids shuffle their feet anxiously. Finally the girl answers, “Abby,” and that prompts the older boy to offer, “I’m Gentry and this is William,” pointing at the smallest of the three.

“They’re my brothers,” Abby adds shyly, confirming your initial suspicions of sibling-hood.

“IT IS VERY NICE TO MEET YOU, ABBY, GENTRY, AND WILLIAM,” the tall skeleton offers courteously, if loudly. “I HAVE SIBLINGS OF MY OWN, YOU KNOW. THIS IS MY SISTER ______!” The children look as confused as you might expect after a statement like that. Papyrus, however, overlooks this in favor of adding, “NOW LET US BOMBARD OUR ENEMIES WITH POWDERY BALLS OF ICY FUN!” and throwing a snowball at you with impeccable aim. You squeak and dive for the cover of a wintry bush, the kids laugh, and suddenly battle is joined once more.

Shouts and squeals and cheers fill the twilit street. The longer you play, the more comfortable the children grow with their strange new friend. A mere fifteen minutes later, you’re lying in the snow, gasping for breath, as Papyrus hefts four laughing children, two hanging from each arm as he “flexes” dramatically. He has as much energy as they do, but you and Roxy are completely worn out. You’re shaking with the extended effort of running through snow, and your breath puffs out in clouds as you pant, the cold air a blessing to your overheated body. Next to you, Roxy is in the same state. As a fifth child runs to tackle Papyrus and the skeleton finally overbalances and floofs into the snow under a pile of shrieking kids, you turn your head to look at your friend and say, “Be honest. We’re getting old, aren’t we?”

“Shut your lying mouth,” Roxy pants, and hefts a handful of snow at you, too exhausted to even form it into a ball first.

You lift your head wearily and holler, “Hey, Paps? Roxy and I are going in. You coming?”

“NOT YET!” Papyrus cries from under the pile of children. “WE ARE NOT DONE PLAYING!”

You stand on wobbly legs and dust the snow from your now-damp jeans. “Okay, well, don’t be too long. It’ll be dark soon.”

“THAT IS WHY I MUST PLAY AS HARD AS POSSIBLE WHILE I HAVE THE CHANCE!”

You laugh and help Roxy up, and the two of you head back into the house.

Sans is sitting sideways on the couch when you walk in the door, his legs stretched along it and his arm thrown over the back. You feel a smile spreading across your face: he looks a lot healthier than he did earlier. He grins at you and nods over the back of the couch at the picture window that looks out into the front yard. Papyrus and the children are quickly losing daylight, but as Papyrus said, they’re making up for that with extra exuberance. Sans looks back to you. “thanks for that,” he says, and you feel your smile turning a little goofy in response to the look in Sans’s eye sockets, a look perilously close to adoration. You want to reply, but you’re temporarily lost for words, so you just shrug awkwardly, grinning and blushing. Seconds tick by while the two of you smile at each other.

Roxy clears her throat. You and Sans startle, suddenly remembering her presence. A glance at her shows that her smile is bright and wide and slightly wicked.

In your experience, that smile has always preceded trouble.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it,” you hiss at her.

“You know I don’t believe in thinking,” she quips, and flounces into the kitchen. You follow her to the fridge. She opens the freezer and says, “Bingo!” A moment later, her arms are stacked with frozen pizzas.

“Do you mind?” you ask wryly. Roxy raids your fridge without asking every time she comes over, but you still feel obligated to call attention to it.

“Not at all,” your friend says primly, grinning, and pulls a few pizza pans from the compartment under the stove. You roll your eyes. As Roxy sets the oven temperature, Papyrus finally comes in, shaking snow off his pink coat. His cheekbones are flushed with exertion and cold and his normally large smile is now so huge it seems likely to split his face in two.

“BROTHER! DID YOU SEE US PLAYING? WE HAD SUCH FUN! YOU MUST COME WITH US NEXT TIME!” As the tall skeleton begins to chatter to Sans about his new friends and their “adventures” together, you and Roxy head for your room to change out of your wet clothes.

Roxy is a little taller than you but no wider, so it’s not difficult to find a pair of pajamas that fit her. Strangely, you find it harder to decide which pajamas to wear yourself. As you vacillate between a cute tank-top/pants set with a strawberry print and a somewhat racier camisole and shorts combo in baby blue, Roxy perches on your bed, already dry and cozy in a borrowed sleep shirt, and watches you slyly. “Strawberries,” she says finally, apparently tired of watching you dither. “The blue matches your boy but I think he’s more about the laid-back than the come-hither.”

You flinch. “What? I wasn’t…”

“You damn sure were!” Roxy laughs delightedly. “You were, don’t try to lie your way outta this! Oh my god, this is gonna be so much fun!!!” You grimace to yourself as Roxy squeals and flops backwards onto your bed. “Now get changed and let’s go have pizza.” She sits up again, expression suddenly intense and serious, and adds, “And play games. Lots of games.”

“That’s the wrong expression for games,” you say, concerned. “What are you planning?”

Roxy grins. “Gaaaaames…” she warbles spookily at you as she slides out the door.

“Weirdo,” you mutter, shaking your head, and start pulling off your sodden clothes.

* * * * *

“GAMES! GAMES!” Papyrus shouts excitedly, and shoves the last slice of pizza into his mouth whole.  
“So here’s how this works,” you tell the room at large, brandishing a pack of playing cards. You and Roxy have had certain sleepover rules for as long as you can remember, and this is one of the most sacred. “We each draw a card and the highest value gets to pick the first game. We each get one veto but you don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. If it’s your turn to pick and your choice gets vetoed, you pick something else. You can also pass up your turn if you don’t care what we do.”

“why all the rules?” Sans asks, looking a bit mystified.

“To keep one person from calling all the shots,” you answer dryly, cocking an eyebrow at Roxy. Your friend sticks her tongue out at you and then makes a grab for the cards.

“Me first!”

You let her snatch them with a fond eye-roll. Roxy draws a card and passes the deck counterclockwise. You’re last to pick, and when you see you’ve drawn the two of hearts, you wonder if it’s a sign. Then you wonder if the sign says, “Go for it! He likes you!” or “Lowest value in the deck. Better luck next time.” You snort in mild disgust and hold the card up so everyone can see it. Roxy has the six of spades, Papyrus has the king of diamonds, and Sans has either drawn the ace of spades or cheated his way into it. You groan as he waves his card cheerfully in your face. “Okay, you pick first, obviously.”

“pass.”

You choke and start laughing. “You cheated, didn’t you? You cheated and you don’t even care what we do!”

Sans shrugs. “I like to win. Sue me.”

“THAT MEANS IT’S MY TURN!” Papyrus announces gleefully, and then, “CANDYLAND! WE SHALL PLAY CANDYLAND! UNLESS SOMEONE VETOES IT! WHICH THEY SHALL NOT BECAUSE WHO DOES NOT LOVE CANDYLAND? NOBODY, THAT IS WHO!”

Well, he’s right. Nobody doesn’t love Candyland. But when Papyrus finally wins, as he usually does with board games, you feel a little chill run down your spine. It’s Roxy’s turn to pick, and the look on her face is delightedly mischievous.

“My turn!” she squeals cheerfully. “Seven Minutes in Heaven!” You startle and make a sound like a small duck that’s been trodden on.

“Veto! Nope, veto, veto, veto,” you say. Geez, Roxy’s not kidding around with this.

“Aww.” Your friend makes a pouty face at you.

“what’s seven…”

“Two people go into a closet,” you explain succinctly. “What happens in the closet stays in the closet.” Sans blinks and squints at Roxy. Seems he’s figured it out as well, now.

“In that case,” Roxy says, “Spin the Bottle.”

“what’s…”

“It’s a kissing game,” you offer, and before you can elaborate, Sans shouts, “veto!” You wince. Spin the Bottle could have been a relatively harmless alternative to some of the more risqué sleepover games Roxy knows. You look at Papyrus. He’s sitting on the floor, holding his ankles and bouncing his knees like an excited child. You doubt he’ll help with a well-placed “veto,” which means the next thing Roxy picks is probably going to be what you play.

Roxy grins at you.

“Well-played,” you grudgingly admit.

“Truth…” Roxy starts.

“Oh, hell, no,” you say.

“Or…”

“Don’t say it!”

“Dare.” Roxy’s eyes have a manic shine to them.

“TRUTH OR DARE! I KNOW THAT GAME!” Papyrus jitters happily in place.

“yeah,” Sans says unenthusiastically. “me too.” He sounds like he’s regretting using his veto so quickly. You look askance at him. He _looks_ like he’s _really _regretting it. You suppose you can sympathize: the game was practically designed to create widespread embarrassment. But somehow he seems even more tense than you’d expected.__

__It occurs to you that he might choose to leave the party over this._ _

__Despite Roxy's apparent dastardly plans, you really, _really_ want Sans to stay._ _

__Without thinking, you reach for his hand. He blinks at you in surprise, and then his bony fingers curl around yours. He schools his expression into his characteristic lazy grin. You breathe a silent sigh of relief. A glance at Roxy shows her expression has fallen a bit; she’s finally noticed she’s been pushing too hard. She’s still smiling, though, and she doesn’t offer to choose a different game._ _

__Roxy passes the card deck around again. “Highest card goes first and we move counterclockwise,” she announces bossily._ _

__Sans produces the ace of spades again, giving you a serious fit of the giggles. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s cheating. He seems pleased by your reaction, and rewards it by choosing to pick on you._ _

__“truth or dare?”_ _

__“Uhh…” You’re torn. Picking “truth” is always potentially embarrassing, but Sans is bound to come up with something weird if you choose “dare.” On second thought, that might be fun. “Dare,” you decide._ _

__“i dare you…” Sans thinks for a moment. His eyes land on the strip of skin between the bottom of your tank top and the top of your pajama pants. They skid away quickly, but then a light bulb seems to go on in Sans’s mind. “… to draw a face on your stomach. In permanent marker.”_ _

__You and Roxy erupt in laughter. Papyrus says, “SANS, THAT IS JUST SILLY. WELL DONE!”_ _

__“wait, wait,” Sans says, waving his hands, now caught up in his own whimsicality. “then you have to go around and make it tell everyone, ‘have a nice day.’” He can’t quite keep his poker face at the thought, and lets out a little wheeze of suppressed laughter._ _

__“Oh my god,” you gasp, giggling. “Paps, hand me a marker.”_ _

__You draw two circles for eyes, with dots in them, and a wide toothy smile under your belly button. You forget for a moment that you’re trying to draw upside-down, and the smile comes out a little wobbly and crooked. You let your navel be the nose. Then you turn to Sans, shirt raised, triumphant grin on your face. “It’s you!”_ _

__He barks a laugh. You use your hands to flex your belly around the mouth you’ve drawn and, in an artificially deep voice that comes out sounding _nothing_ like Sans, you say, “Have a nice daaaay, Sans. Love, Sans.”_ _

__“oh, god,” he says. “this is actually a little too weird.” He’s laughing, though, and so are Papyrus and Roxy._ _

__“NOW I HAVE THREE SIBLINGS!” Papyrus shouts, and that’s it. You’re all rolling on the floor with laughter, and though you’re completely unable to finish the dare, no one else is able to insist on it._ _

__By the time the laughter dies down, your sides and stomach are aching. It takes you a moment to recover and take your turn. Finally, “Okay, Roxy,” you say to your friend. “Truth or dare?”_ _

__“Truth,” Roxy decides._ _

__You smirk. “How far have you gotten with Grillby?”_ _

__“OOOOHHH!” Papyrus leans closer to hear the answer. Sans cocks his head, looking interested despite himself._ _

__Roxy blushes and looks away. “Um, how far is there?”_ _

__“Oh my god.” You’re momentarily speechless. “Already? That’s fast, Rox, that’s…” Roxy gives you a smile that’s a little smug and a little shy. _“How?”__ _

__“The usual way,” Roxy says, giving you a smirk._ _

__“Not what I meant!” You grimace, squeezing your eyes shut in a fruitless attempt to block out the mental image. “You’re not usually so… he doesn’t seem like he’d…” You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to gather your thoughts._ _

__Roxy shrugs, radiating a strange mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. “Well, we were both really drunk the first time. It just sorta happened.”_ _

__“c’mon,” Sans complains, and slaps his hands over his earholes. “i don’t wanna hear this.”_ _

__“We woke up together and he tried to apologize, and I said, ‘Don’t you dare,’ and then we did it again.”_ _

__You snort at the casual delivery of that final, completely unnecessary bit of news. Sans starts humming, “Tiptoe Through the Tulips,” hands still over his aural canals. Papyrus asks, “DID WHAT?”_ _

__You shake your head, striving to process this information without picturing Grillby naked, and not quite succeeding. “What do your parents think?” you ask finally._ _

__“Well, you know they’re really traditional, but they’re also from the Free Love generation, so they forgave me.” Your friend grins at you shamelessly. “Grandma told me to at least use protection.”_ _

__You burst out laughing. “Yeah, that sounds like Gram.”_ _

__“Okay,” Roxy says, “My turn.”_ _

__You sober immediately. Next to you, Sans stiffens almost imperceptibly._ _

__“Sans!” Roxy points at the small skeleton. “Truth or dare?”_ _

__“dare,” Sans says. You know he’s worried, but he’s hiding it very well._ _

__Roxy’s grin is bright and enthusiastic, but knowing her well, it also looks slightly predatory to you._ _

__“I dare you to make your hand make out with ______’s hand. For a minute.”_ _

__Laughter erupts around your small circle, and you relax a little. Maybe Roxy truly doesn’t want to push you that hard. You shoot her a grateful look, and she smiles back a bit more gently than you would have expected. As long as things stay silly, you can relax and have fun._ _

__Sans is snickering helplessly. “what? how does that…” He looks at his hand in amused perplexity. You hold out your own, giggling. “so we just…”_ _

__“No questions!” Roxy shouts bossily. “Hand makeouts start…” She looks at the clock. “Now!”_ _

__Sans smashes his hand into yours and immediately loses it. “a-ha-ha! they just kinda went ‘smuuush!’”_ _

__“Aw geez,” you answer, laughing helplessly._ _

__“so i just kinda…”_ _

__“Hold on, let me try…”_ _

__The two of you maneuver your fingers and palms in various ways, trying to create something that could be construed as “making out.”_ _

__“It’s not working! You’re doing it wrong!” You’re breathless from laughter._ _

__“i assure you my technique is flawless.” Sans smushes his palm against your hand repeatedly and energetically. You crack up again._ _

__“If that’s how you make love…”_ _

__“whoa, hold on, no cheap shots allowed.” Sans smirks at you, his eyes catching and holding yours, and suddenly the hand-play feels… different. The warm bones of his fingers run along your own and slip under them, stroking at your palm. Your fingers curl inwards at the sensation. You get him back by trailing your thumb along his carpals and drawing it down to the tip of his ring finger, then gliding your fingertips up the back of his hand. You haven’t broken eye contact, and you can see Sans’s pupils dilate slightly as you do this. He shifts his hand, one finger stroking between two of your knuckles before traveling down between your own fingers to gently rub the fleshy pads at their base. You feel your heart speed up._ _

__“Time!” Roxy calls, and you and Sans spring apart like two halves of a snapped guitar string. Roxy kindly pretends not to notice your embarrassment, but Papyrus is holding his hands to his cheeks, eyes sparkling joyfully, and you swear you can see him mouth the words “hand babies.” Heat rushes to your face. Oh, god, it probably did look… like that. What _is_ it about tonight that keeps making you forget you have an audience?!_ _

__Having recovered himself, Papyrus realizes it’s his turn, and the game continues. Roxy seems to have spent most of her mischief for the evening; that, or she’s realized the feelings involved aren’t really safe to play with. Whichever it is, when you hesitantly pick “truth” the next time she calls on you, she refrains from making you admit your feelings for Sans. Instead, she asks, “What’s your go-to song in the shower?”_ _

__You cock an eyebrow at your friend. You’ve spent so many nights together you’re surprised she doesn’t know the answer to this one._ _

__“Whitney Houston. I Will Always Love You.”_ _

__“Aww, I love you too, sweetie,” Roxy says cheerily. “Especially naked and wet.”_ _

__You cringe. That was weird, even for Roxy. Then you happen to glance at Sans and notice he’s blushing and carefully not looking at you._ _

__Roxy just made him think of you in the shower._ _

__You’d kill her if it wasn’t illegal._ _

__The night wears on. Papyrus makes Roxy try to whistle with a mouth full of crackers. Sans forces Paps to admit he pretends to drive his race-car bed sometimes. You make Sans gargle “i am the lizard king. i can do anything. raise your hand if you understand,” while hopping on one leg. He almost drowns and you spend the next round rubbing his back while he has sporadic coughing fits. Roxy behaves herself… mostly. The rest of the night passes in that peculiar mixture of laughter, comfort, and profound humiliation so very characteristic of sleepovers. And as you and Roxy snuggle down in your bed at the end of it all, holding hands like you used to when you were kids, you think back over the evening with gratitude._ _

__Then you realize something._ _

__Sans never once picked “truth.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> **~ Author's Note ~**  
> 
> 
>   
>  You may have noticed I’ve foregone the use of “(y/n)” in favor of “_____.” Because I like it better. I just do.  
> This chapter was supposed to come out on Valentine’s Day, but I’m afraid it’s rather late. Sorry! It’s the thought that counts, right~? 


	27. Current

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which, to Sans’s disgust, morning begins before sunrise._

_Sans_

This “Valentine’s Day” thing is gonna be the end of me, I swear.

It’s mainly a couples thing, that much is obvious, but Paps recently informed me that people who care about each other in other ways also give each other “valentines.” He’s been working on valentines for me an’ Checkers for, like, a week. He won’t tell us what they are but couldn’t keep his mouth shut about the fact he had plans. His bosses and coworkers are getting some too, apparently, and he’s so excited it’s kinda scary.

So what do I do?

I’ve now got an obligation to get a valentine or some kind of gift for my brother, and that means I’ve gotta get one for Checkers, too, or she might feel left out, and _that_ means I need to survive the minefield that is buying a love-themed thing for the friend I’m in love with without cluing her in to the fact that I love her in a definitely more-than-friendly way.

Startin’ to freak out a little, there, Sansy. Okay, cool it down. Valentine’s Day isn’t for another week.

One minefield at a time.

I train the pocket telescope on the rooftop of the office supply store across from the tall, dense hedge I’ve designated as the drop spot. The hedge runs around the front of one of the larger houses in town and butts up against a high wooden fence at the back. We’re on the outskirts of town, me and the guy I’m lookin’ at, and while I watch him, he watches the hedge and occasionally scans the surrounding area, looking for me. There’s another couple in a car around the side of the house, and one inside the shop, though with the lights off I can only see him if he’s close to the window and if he moves. That’s four pairs of eyes I’ve gotta avoid.

It’s late, it’s dark, it’s fucking cold, and the file I’m waiting for a chance to grab is in danger of getting snowed on.

Checkers would flip if she knew what I’ve been doing recently. Don’t know if she’d try to stop me or if she’d want to help, but either way, I figure it’s best not to tell her. She thinks I’m in the basement right now, building stuff. She doesn’t like to disturb me when I’m science-ing.

You’re a fucking liar, Sans Snowdin.

And Checkers deserves better.

Okay, lemme back up.

Remember when that little human girl went to the hospital after being hurt by magic? One of her monster schoolmates got too rough, and reading between the lines, it sounds to me like they were playing and being reckless. But of course there’s no way to tell for sure since the whole thing has been twisted and blown so far out of proportion it’s starting to seem to me like one of those unidentifiable balloon “animals” Paps and I saw at that fair last summer, and I want nothing more than to pop the fucker in the most dramatic way possible.

Our small-town elementary school has no security cameras, so there’s no footage of what happened. The only lasting evidence of the incident is the girl’s medical records. Now, breaking into small businesses is one thing, but breaking into a hospital? Heh, good luck. There’re cameras all over the place and, maybe worse, hospitals never sleep. The Medical Records people and cafeteria folks and some other groups go home for the day, but the halls are full of nurses and doctors and techs 24-7, and there’s no way I could access an internal computer without getting caught. With no way to get those records all by myself, I had to enlist help.

By that, I mean I followed some doctors, techs, nurses, janitors, and last but not least the girl’s parents around until I finally found a different kind of evidence: I got some pictures of the girl’s mom meeting a secret lover at a seedy motel. (He was wearing a leather mask and short shorts, carrying a whip, and was about three hundred pounds. I was sorta impressed, in an “Oh my god what the hell?” kinda way.) Since the kid’s a minor, her mom’s in charge of making her treatment decisions and has access to all her medical records if she wants them. After a short telephone conversation, she decided she really, _really_ wanted them.

Thank god for scumbags.

Of course, this whole thing has basically bitten me in the ass. I grumble to myself as I scan the area again: flash of reflected light from the roof, dim shift of motion behind the shop window, shadows in the car parked ‘round the side. I told her _no police._ And I know she heard me. Gotta bite the bullet on this one and admit I misjudged her. Her anger at me is obviously stronger than her fear that her dirty secret will get out. If only all scumbags were cowards. It would make life so much easier. Jeez, lady, don’t’cha know it’s nothing personal?

I heave a sigh and put the telescope back into its little case, stowing it in my pocket.

I know what I need to do, but _damn._ Aside from the danger of arrest and the certainty of pain, which I am _not_ looking forward to, I might give away the fact that magic was involved in this fiasco. That’ll narrow their suspects down to several thousand, but they’re a several thousand I’m pretty protective of, and I don’t want to implicate them in this sort of thing.

Hell, that file’s probably a decoy. Maybe there’s nothing useful in it. But this kid’s only eight. She’s already a rallying point for the anti-monster movement. If there’s a chance that file’s the real deal, I need to try and get it.

I scratch my cervical vertebrae, grumbling quietly. No help for it.

I wrap my phalanges around the weft of the world, preparing to tug at it, and hesitate for just a moment.

This is gonna suck.

I can’t just stick my arm into a proverbial hole in space and feel around for the file. I’m not making actual portals, here: I’m messing with reality itself. And space gets confused if you’re in two places at once. Spontaneous dissolution happens. Gotta avoid creating the kind of situation where my arm stays hundreds of feet away from my body long enough for space to figure out something’s amiss and resume its natural shape. Try it and I’ll come out of this with one less limb.

Aaaugh. It’s holly, too. Pointy fuckin’ leaves and all.

I screw my eye sockets tightly closed and slide behind the weave of the world. A moment later, I’m crammed into the bushes, with no intermediate step of making room for myself.

Hard, tightly-packed branches rake at me, leaving burning trails on my body. Stiff, pointed leaves like little thorns scratch at every piece of exposed bone. The hedge is so thick that by the time I settle on a position, I’ve twisted into a sort of pretzel shape, winding around the larger branches as much as possible. I’ve never been so glad to be small and bony. Heh. At least the holly is dense enough that, from the outside, there’s probably almost no movement. Some rustling, maybe, but that’s it. With luck, they’ll just think a raccoon is poking around in here.

I saw where the lady left the file, so I know it’s close. But I’m afraid to open my eyes to look for it. I might have nightmares of branches gouging my eye sockets as it is. I start patting around on the ground, feeling for the smoothness of the file folder, as I hear a car door shut. A second later, another slams. Muttered voices drift to me on the chill night air. One of them is familiar. Tomlinson. Aw, geez. Sorry, man. I’m about to make a fool outta someone I genuinely like. I feel like a heel.

Footsteps crunch on the pavement. Shit. Here they come.

My groping fingers find the file and trace it to its edge. I grip it tightly and, as the sound of approaching footsteps draws rapidly closer, I slip through the earth directly beneath me and drop onto the carpet in my living room. Paps, who’s been putting on his jogging shoes, makes a sound like a startled duck. The “gateway” snaps closed behind me, the weave of the world reconfiguring itself as suddenly as I’d distorted it, and I finally turn my weary gaze to the file folder. I hold it up, open it, and several forms, prescription copies, and a couple of x-ray films fall out.

Got it.

I sigh and let my arms flop to the ground, exhausted and bleeding from a hundred stabs and scratches. I have a moment of perfect peace before Paps starts shouting.

“BROTHER! WHAT IS THIS? WHAT HAS HAPPENED? YOU ARE BLEEDING ALL OVER THE CARPET! QUICKLY, TO THE KITCHEN!” He picks me up, tucks me under one arm like a bundle of laundry, and hustles to the kitchen, presumably to get me onto a surface that wipes clean and doesn’t stain. He plops me into my preferred chair. I sink down and lay my head on the table. I’m starting to shake: my body’s not reacting well to all the damage.

I don’t feel right.

Shit.

I hear Checkers’s door open. Paps’s outcry must have woken her. She comes into the kitchen like a ray of sunlight bursting through a layer of clouds, all sleepy and mussed and exactly what I needed to see. Not that rays of sunlight are sleepy and mussed. Just… I’m rambling now. Sorry.

“Oh, god, Sans!” Checkers pulls up a chair to sit next to me. “You’re bleeding!” She pauses, taking in the fact that all the damage is superficial. Then she asks the obvious question. “How are you bleeding?”

“profusely,” I mutter, shaking harder. It’s not exactly true; I’m not losing that much blood and I’m not seriously injured. I’ve even fully recovered from that dumbass shower thing. The real problem here is… well, you might’ve figured it out by now. I’m smaller than I should be, I don’t have much energy, it’s pretty obvious I’m not… ugh. Not as healthy as I could be. There, I said it.

“I WILL GET THE FIRST AID KIT,” Paps announces. “SANS, YOU MUST TRY TO KEEP YOUR BLOOD ON THE INSIDE WHERE IT BELONGS.”

“sure thing, bro,” I mumble. The room sways for a moment. I squint at it and it stabilizes. Yay me.

Checkers tries to stroke my skull, but she can’t seem to find an uninjured area. Finally she lays her hand at the back of my head near my cervical vertebrae. She gasps. “You’re so cold! Oh, not again!”

“aw, i’m okay,” I try to reassure her. “could use some coffee and a good long nap, but…”

“Don’t give me that!” she snaps, her voice full of a desperate worry that I feel guilty for causing. “I know you like your privacy, but I’m your friend, and you’re hurt! I want to know what happened!” As she speaks, she scoots her chair over until it’s fitted against mine, and she takes me in her arms and pulls me into her lap like a doll.

“ow,” I protest as Checkers wraps her arms more firmly around me. God, she’s so warm. Immediately, I feel the wrongness in my body subside a little. My chest warms slightly as my ailing soul finds new strength.

“You’re so cold,” Checkers mutters against my skull. “Why are you so cold?”

I reach for a pun or at least a witty remark, don’t find one, and, feeling Checkers’s worry with a strange, sudden sharpness, I surprise myself by opting for honesty.

“our bodies aren’t like yours,” I say, leaning into her a little more, leaching off her heat. I hear a clatter and shout upstairs that’s probably Paps discovering I’ve used almost all the band-aids to cover the big hole in my mattress. Luckily, my stupid body is finally starting to heal itself. I can feel the scratches on my more sensitive parts itching as they begin to knit. “monsters’ bodies and souls are almost the same thing,” I continue as Checkers listens. “my body heat? that’s excess magic dissipating as one of energy’s simplest forms. right now my magic is going towards healing myself, so there’s none left over to diffuse as heat.”

Checkers’s eyes are wide as she looks at me. “That… is _so cool,”_ she says, and I chuckle weakly at the pun. A moment later, she laughs. Guess she didn’t make it on purpose. “But,” she continues, “I thought monsters could handle a lot of damage. Right? Unless there’s malice involved.” She frowns at me and I can practically see thunderheads of fury gathering around her. “Sans, did someone do this to you?”

“oh, hell, no, not at all,” I hurry to explain. My voice is getting slowly weaker, and I have to exert more energy to make myself heard, but I figure it’s worth it. “most monsters can heal damage like this in a heartbeat, but i’m… weak, i guess? don’t ask why. just, my soul doesn’t handle injuries the way other monsters’ souls do.” I almost stop there, but I can feel Checkers’s inquisitiveness waxing, and I have to remind myself that human bodies are very different and maybe I should give her some basic info on monsters and injuries. “there’s a… a _division,_ i guess, of damage, that happens when one of us gets hurt. the soul takes the hurt from the body, takes the damage, and then recovers. souls are generally pretty resilient. but mine… it isn’t like that. it can’t handle this sort of thing, but it tries anyway, and…”

“You hurt your _soul?”_ She sounds appalled.

“i’ll be okay,” I tell her, and can’t help adding, “gotta soul-dier on, right?”

“Augh,” Checkers says, laughs, and holds me tighter. I’m getting blood on her pajamas. Man. Maybe I can do her laundry later to make up for it. Orange juice gets blood out, right? … Maybe laundry isn’t the best idea. I’ll come up with something later. I snuggle closer to her and am too out-of-it to even be embarrassed about that.

“You’re getting a little warmer,” she says. “Are you feeling any better?”

Come to think of it, I _am._ I really am. And now that I’m not struggling to heal myself anymore, weariness flattens me like a runaway steamroller. “yeah,” I murmur, eye sockets sliding shut. “loads.” Laundry pun. She’ll never know. It’s hilarious.

“Why are you laughing?” Checkers asks, a bit suspiciously.

I decline to answer on the grounds that I’ve passed out.

 

* * * * *

 

_ You _

 

You stroke the back of Sans’s skull gently as you listen to Papyrus rummaging upstairs. The way your small friend has gone limp tells you he’s fallen asleep. His breathing evens out and his body seems to melt into yours, releasing all the tiny tensions you hadn’t even known were there.

Beyond the doorway you can see the file and some of its scattered papers out of the corner of your eye.

“Sans,” you murmur quietly against the side of his head, “What have you been doing?” _And,_ your inner voice adds silently, _why wasn’t I a part of it?_

That’s the worst part, isn’t it? After everything the two of you have been through together, after _telling_ you that he’d include you in this, he’s still leaving you behind, shutting you out, keeping you away from all the parts of himself he won’t, or can’t, share.

You trail a hand over his blood-sticky hoodie, idly playing with a new tear in the fabric. You feel a twinge in your own skin, as if, for a moment, you’re sharing the pain associated with the damage. You sigh, arms tightening around Sans involuntarily.

If he was just another friend, you’d be all right with his emotional isolation. But Sans is so much more to you than that. In some ways, you’ve never been as close to anyone in your whole life as you are to him. In other ways… well, it’s like there’s a wall between the two of you that Sans carefully maintains and which you’re starting to think you may never be able to breach. The possibility sits like a cinderblock on your chest, pressing the breath from you.

You don’t know why, after everything you’ve shared, he’s still keeping you at arm’s length. But…

You grip Sans’s hoodie in your fists and hold him tightly as a spasm of pain knifes through you.

_He’s so alone._

_He doesn’t have to be so alone._

With the thought, you find everything in you straining towards Sans, as if you might be able to help him in his struggles, ease his pain, by the power of your will alone. And, gradually, you become aware of a strange sensation, as if a warm stream of water is moving within you. It feels natural, as if it’s been there all your life, and you’re caught for a moment in the disorienting and somewhat disturbing feeling that you’ve suddenly discovered you have an eleventh finger, or another ear under your hair.

For a moment, you’re afraid. The flow of the “water” slows in response, reverses direction, begins trickling towards your center rather than out through your…

Through your hands. And into Sans.

_What… is this?_

You hesitantly reach for Sans again with your… your mind? Your emotions? It takes a second or two to redirect the flow back outwards, but it sluggishly complies. Once you feel a connection has been firmly established, you lift your hand slightly away from Sans and scrutinize the space between his body and your palm. Is there a subtle waver in the air there, like a heat shimmer? Or are you just imagining things? You snort softly to yourself. You’re probably trying too hard, fooling yourself into feeling and seeing things that aren’t there.

Papyrus stomps back down the stairs carrying the plastic tub containing the house’s first aid accoutrements and catches you staring at your hand as it hovers over Sans’s skull.

“YOU CAN PET HIM IF YOU LIKE. I PROMISE HE DOES NOT BITE.” The tall skeleton cackles at his own joke. You don’t laugh.

“Is he going to be okay?” You were on the verge of asking about the strange (new? old?) feeling you’re experiencing, but if it’s nothing, you don’t want to seem foolish. And poor Sans is such a mess. You can’t shake the fear that his injuries are worse than they seem.

“HE WILL BE FINE, SISTER. YOUR CONCERN IS QUITE TOUCHING!” Papyrus ruffles your hair before opening the first aid kit. As he pulls out lengths of bandage, he continues, “HE ARRIVED HOME ALIVE, SO HE CAN ONLY GET BETTER. AFTER ALL, WHAT DOES NOT KILL US MAKES US STRONGER!” The lanky skeleton “flexes” to punctuate his statement. You finally allow yourself a small giggle.

“You’re sure?” you ask, already relaxing a little. “Good. That’s good.” The final words are muttered under your breath, semi-conscious attempts to release the last of your anxiety. You jostle Sans gently and sing softly in his earhole, “Sans? CB? You’ve gotta get up, honey. We need to clean your scratches.” For some reason, you find yourself speaking to him as if he’s a child. When he stirs, but only to grip you around the middle and groan into your shirt, you chuckle and bump him again. “Come on, Sansy, time to wake up.”

“’n m’rnin umn…”

“Those aren’t even words,” you inform him good-naturedly, shaking him a little harder.

“are too,” he mumbles, and goes back to sleep. Papyrus groans in frustration. He doesn’t find Sans’s sleepy mornings nearly as cute as you do.

You sigh, smirk, and blow a puff of air into Sans’s earhole.

“khh!” Sans startles awake, hands fisting into your shirt, and freezes when he finds his face inches from yours. His pupils shrink, and then expand, focusing on your eyes. “h-hi,” he stammers, seeming a little woozy still.

“Hi,” you say back, amused. “We need to clean and bandage you.”

“oh,” he replies. “oh, yeah, okay.”

Papyrus sets a bowl of warm water on the table and hands you a damp washcloth. He wields a second one in his bony hand and commands, “BROTHER, REMOVE YOUR CLOTHING FORTHWITH.”

Sans chokes and looks at you, blushing. You shrug. “You’re a skeleton,” you tell him. “Don’t tell me you have something you need to protect from prying eyes.”

Sans gives you a mild glare as he slides out of your arms, taking a chair of his own. “you wouldn’t be so blasé if _i_ told _you_ to get naked,” he grumbles. Now it’s your turn to blush. Sullenly, Sans starts removing his hoodie. Almost immediately, he stops, a small sound of pain escaping him.

“Wait, wait,” you tell him, stilling his hands with your own. You proceed to slowly peel his bloody hoodie away from his shoulders yourself. The blood has started to dry, and some of his wounds reopen as you pull the cloth away as gently as you can. Sans grunts. “Sorry!” you say.

“don’t be,” he responds. “’s my own damn fault.” Once again, he tries to remove the jacket himself, but you softly push his hands out of the way. Then Papyrus steps around behind his brother, grabs the back of the hoodie, and tears it off in one quick motion.

“eeyowtch!” Sans whips around to glare at Papyrus. Many of his injuries are seeping blood again: you can see the spreading patches on his t-shirt.

“YOU ARE SLOW,” your gangly friend announces. “WE DO NOT HAVE ALL MORNING.” With that, he grabs the shoulders of Sans’s t-shirt as if to rip it off as well.

“s-stop!” Sans grabs at his hem, and the brothers briefly struggle against each other, Papyrus pulling upwards and Sans dragging doggedly downwards.

“Boys! Boys!” you intervene loudly. The two of them stop briefly to look at you. You scramble for something to distract Papyrus with. “Doesn’t Sans need food in order to heal properly?” you ask. You don’t know much about how monsters’ bodies work, but the food-to-energy equation seems to apply to them as much as it does to humans.

“YES, OF COURSE!” Papyrus latches onto the idea like a puppy with a toy rope. He springs to the refrigerator and starts pulling out ingredients with the energetic joy cooking always brings out of him. “I SHALL MAKE THE LARGEST AND MOST MAGNIFICENT BREAKFAST THAT HAS EVER BEEN EATEN, AND YOU, SISTER, CAN CLEAN AND DRESS OUR BROTHER’S WOUNDS… IF YOU CAN WINKLE HIM OUT OF HIS CLOTHING. HE SEEMS VERY ATTACHED TO IT TODAY.”

_“it’s_ attached to _me,”_ Sans grouches, tugging at his shirt. You wince in sympathy.

“We’ll go slow, okay?” you say, taking his hem and peeling it upwards a centimeter at a time. When you reach his ribcage, you gasp. Scratches and cuts criss-cross his bones, some so deep they’re more like gouges. Most of them have scabbed over, but several are still bleeding, and more break open when you pull the t-shirt away from them. “Jumpin’ Jesus on a pogo stick,” you breathe, dismayed.

Sans snickers. “is that one of roxy’s?”

“Usually,” you admit. “I only use it on special occasions.” Your eyes rise to meet his. “Are you going to be okay?”

“i’ll be fine,” he reassures you. “i actually feel better than i thought i would.” His eyes wander away, taking on a distant, thoughtful expression, and he mutters, “weird.”

“YES, BROTHER, YOU ARE RECOVERING REMARKABLY WELL,” Papyrus interjects, glancing over his shoulder at the two of you. “I AM SURPRISED YOU ARE CONSCIOUS. CLEARLY, I HAVE HAD A POSITIVE INFLUENCE ON YOU!”

“‘cause obviously, health is just a matter of willpower,” Sans grumbles.

“Sarcasm is beneath you,” you tell him archly, and recommence removing his shirt.

“aww, but it’s so easy,” Sans whines, and then winces as you tug the tee over his head. You wad up the ruined shirt and toss it onto the table.

“I AM MAKING CROISSANTS, AND IF YOU ARE SARCASTIC AGAIN YOU WILL NOT GET ANY,” Papyrus scolds, not bothering to turn and look at his brother.

“You’re so snitty this morning,” you add, not without fondness, as you reach for a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

“everything hurts, and it’s not morning until the sun is up.” Sans is still grouchy, but he’s smiling a little now.

You apply some peroxide to a clean rag and dab at one of the deeper cuts on his ribcage. You can see him struggling not to flinch. “Can monsters get infections?” you find yourself asking.

“yeah, but they just prevent wounds from healing. i heard they can make humans sick, even kill them?” The last is phrased like a statement but presented as a question.

“They can,” you confirm. You’re focused on cleaning Sans’s wounds, and don’t look up at his face.

“sounds inconvenient.” There’s a slight tension in his voice that wasn’t there before, accompanied by a stiffening of his body. You chalk it up to pain and keep disinfecting, but you do respond with a nod.

“Can monsters bleed to death?” you ask next.

“sort of?” Sans sounds uncertain. You lean close to him to clean a cut on his collarbone. The wound wraps around the delicate bone, ending on the inner surface near his vertebrae. He must have twisted as whatever-it-was raked him, to get a scratch like this. “it’s more from loss of magic,” Sans continues, voice tight. “magic and blood are connected. if you’re hurt like that… aah…”

“Sorry.”

“’s okay. you lose magic when you lose blood, and whatever magic you have left is being consumed in the healing process. if too much magic drains out or gets used up, there’s nothing left to keep us together. we’re made of the stuff, after all.” He grips your hand in his, stopping your cleaning efforts. “let me finish that one?”

“It’s done already,” you inform him. “Why didn’t your pseudo-flesh protect you?” You start on his face. He watches you work from a distance of centimeters, expression intense and oddly conflicted.

“it did. just couldn’t protect me from everything.”

“God, Sans, you can feel through that stuff, right?”

“uh-huh.” Your face is so close to his you can feel his breath brush against you. Your heart chooses this inappropriate time to stutter and clench, and you have to remind your hand to keep moving.

“It must have hurt so much,” you mumble, almost to yourself.

“wasn’t so bad,” Sans replies with a shrug. Because you’ve been resting your elbow on his shoulder joint, this disrupts your equilibrium and you accidentally slap him across the face with the rag.

“Oops! Sorry!”

“why you gotta rag on me?”

“I changed my mind. I’m not sorry.” You flap the rag against his cheek again. Sans chuckles. You move around to his back.

“They’re everywhere. What were you doing?”

“i, uh, i ‘ported into a holly hedge.”

“Har har, funny bones.”

“no, really, that shit is way worse than it sounds. for real.”

You pause, blinking. “Holly hedge?”

“holly hedge.”

You have to stick your fingers between two of Sans’s ribs to reach a gouge that, if he can be believed, is from a branch that literally impaled him. He gasps and grips the edge of the table. The pale blue light in his chest flickers brightly for a moment, like a loose light bulb.

“We should get one for the yard. We can train it to eat anyone who comes too close.”

Sans laughs at that. When you ask your next question, though, the atmosphere sobers immediately.

“Why are you still keeping me out of this?” You reach for the bandages and begin the process of wrapping them around his torso. You don’t need to cover every scratch; you only need to protect them from dirt and debris, so there’s no need to bandage each bone individually.

“dunno,” Sans says quietly. “i don’t want you to get hurt? don’t want you to worry or argue with me?”

“I guess those are reasons,” you say doubtfully. “They might even be convincing if you didn’t start with ‘dunno.’”

You’re at his back, so you can’t see his face, but his posture droops a little. His phalanges play an anxious tattoo on the table. For once in his life, he’s silent.

“You really _don’t_ know, huh?”

“i have some guesses.” His voice is so low the sound of sizzling bacon from Papyrus’s masterpiece-in-the-making almost drowns it out.

“You don’t have to do this all alone.”

Sans starts to turn, as if to look at you, but you push on his shoulder to keep him facing forward. Most of his gouges have stopped bleeding again, and you’d like to keep it that way. You almost don’t hear Sans mumble, “i’ve been doing things on my own for so long… i just don’t know how to…”

You’re reaching for Sans again, not physically but emotionally. You didn’t even will it; it’s happening naturally. This time, you can immediately feel that warm current inside you start to trickle into him from your points of contact. “Let me in,” you say softly, half-pleading, half finishing Sans’s sentence. You’re only vaguely aware that you said it out loud.

Sans stiffens. “what’re you doing?”

“Uh… what?” The flow stops at your surprise.

Your hand has been resting on his shoulder. Now Sans reaches back to grip your wrist and pull your arm forward, over his shoulder, so he can scrutinize your hand. Pressed to his back, you can’t see his face, but his sudden intensity is readily apparent. “What is it?” you ask, shocked.

“what was that? was that what i think it was?” Sans releases your wrist and examines his scratched and bloody arm instead. You follow his gaze, and then follow his motion, grabbing his wrist and pulling his arm up so you can see it better.

“ow!”

There’s a light scratch running down his radius that you’re sure was a deep gouge before. You’re sure of it. You trace a finger gently along next to it. “Wasn’t this deeper?” you ask, but you know the answer before the question leaves your lips.

Sans is gazing at your face, head turned so he can see you as you rest your chin on his shoulder. “a lot of these were deeper,” he answers, and you can’t tell whether that low rich voice of his carries wonder or dread. “what did you do?” The question is almost a whisper.

“I don’t know. Nothing! …I think.” But even as you reply, you’re recalling that feeling, the warm current, the pull of connection between you and Sans, and as it’s remembered, so it happens, as easy as drawing breath now, and nearly as unconscious.

The light in Sans’s chest pulses like a heartbeat. The two of you look down at it simultaneously, and then return your gazes to Sans’s un-bandaged arm. Your eyes widen and your breath is stolen away: the bone is knitting before your eyes. The change is slow, but it’s there. There’s no denying it.

“how are you doing that?” Sans asks, seemingly awestruck. He lifts his eye lights to look at you, and you watch his eye sockets widen in sudden shock as if you’re on the other end of a long tunnel. He lurches to his feet, chair clattering to the floor, reaching for you even as your arms slip from his shoulders and you fall backward into darkness.

“Checkers!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**
> 
> You’d think Papyrus would be all sweet and accommodating when his brother is hurt or sick. Surprise! His bedside manner is the WORST. :P He just doesn’t understand weakness at all and thinks everyone can bull right through their troubles the way he can. 
> 
> There’s been entirely too much getting sick and injured and passing out recently in this story. EVERYBODY NEEDS TO BE SAFER! I swear, I should probably baby-proof this biz…


	28. A Kind I've Never Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is less morning and more coffee than usual.

_ You _

It’s light out when you wake up, and for a moment, you struggle to understand what’s happening. The whole pre-dawn drama feels like a dream, hazy around the edges and bookended by sleep, but something deeper inside you insists that this is the second time you’ve woken today, and then adds that you should have been out of bed hours ago. As you move your head, a slow ache threatens to rise behind your eyeballs. You squeeze your eyes shut and take a moment to ease further into consciousness, becoming gradually aware of your body. It feels a bit… odd. As if you’ve had a fever and are still a little achy from it. You stretch carefully, so as not to manifest the threatened headache, and try to remember if you’ve been drinking.

The murmur of soft voices draws you from your bed, and you ease your way out of the ex-study and into the living room, each step bringing back another memory from your strange, anxious morning. _That’s right… I passed out. For no reason…? Or…_

The voices are coming from the kitchen, Sans’s low rumble the counterpoint to a gentle, melodic voice, a voice you know. Not well, but you _do_ know it. _No, that can’t be right, she’s a hundred miles away, there’s no way she’d be here…_ And then Papyrus’s voice blasts out with its characteristic volume, “BUT YOUR MAJESTY, SHE DID NOT DO ANY HUMAN MAGIC AND I KNOW BECAUSE I WAS THERE AND I SAW HER NOT DOING IT!”

You poke your head curiously around the door and, yes, against all common sense, Toriel, queen of the monsters, is sitting at your kitchen table, the largest coffee mug in the house almost swallowed up in her great white paws.

“YOU DID NOT DO ANY HUMAN MAGIC!” Papyrus shouts at you matter-of-factly as you take the last chair. You rub your temple absently: that headache is still prodding at the edge of your awareness, looking for a way into your life.

“Human magic?” you ask, and turn to Toriel. “Your majesty?” You look at Sans. “Explain?”

Sans snickers briefly, and then his expression softens. His hand twitches from its place on the table and then settles again, as if it wanted to reach for you but changed its mind almost at once. “how’re you feeling, checkers? you doin’ okay?” He’s in a t-shirt and pajama pants, and looks somehow incomplete without his hoodie. It takes you a moment to remember the soft blue jacket’s been ruined. You feel a sharp and completely ridiculous pang of loss.

“I guess?” You’re really not sure how to answer his question. “I almost have a headache. Why’s Toriel here?” You turn again to the queen. “I thought you were at the Embassy.”

“I was, my child,” Toriel responds with a small smile. “Sans picked me up. I will return to my duties once we’ve unraveled this…” She hesitates, and then finishes, “occurrence.” She was going to say “mystery.” You’re sure of it.

“tori’s a scholar of magic,” Sans explains. His customary smile is a little tense, and you can feel the worry radiating off him. You can’t help but be a little afraid yourself, anxiety creeping gradually in, a response to the strange circumstances. Your friend continues, “she’s also one of the few monsters alive who’ve seen human magic in action. whatever happened this morning, she’s our best bet if we wanna figure it out.”

“Oh. Okay.” You scrutinize Sans, and then ask, “Are _you_ okay? You look okay. _Are_ you okay? Is there coffee?”

Sans chuckles, and his smile relaxes somewhat. “i’m fine. there’s coffee. stay there, i’ll get you some.” He pushes himself away from the table and ambles to the counter. You catch Toriel watching him with an expression of surprise that transforms into one of thoughtfulness.

“My child?” she ventures, clearly uncertain of the best way to approach the matter.

“Uh-huh?” you respond. You rub your face with your hand and brush your hair back with your fingers. You’re usually better with mornings. The way this day began has thrown you off your rhythm completely. You haven’t felt so out-of-it in a long time. Or maybe that’s an aftereffect of the “magic” your friends are talking about.

Toriel looks from you to Sans, who’s adding spoonfuls of sugar to your favorite mug, the one you call your “chunky mug.” Two and a quarter teaspoons: two wouldn’t be sweet enough, three is way too sweet. The queen indicates the skeleton and asks, “Does he do this often?”

“Not usually,” you reply. “I must look like I need help waking up.” You smile ruefully at Toriel, who smiles back.

“you look like you need to go back to bed,” Sans states good-naturedly, setting your chunky mug down in front of you. You sigh with satisfaction and wrap your hands around it, absorbing its warmth, and glance at the microwave’s clock display. Ten forty-seven. You’ve lost almost six hours.

“So,” you start, and take a sip of your coffee. “What happened?” You’re hoping Toriel will have a quick and simple answer, preferably one that indicates you won’t be passing out again… or worse.

The queen just shakes her head. “I am not sure yet,” she responds, and you slump a bit, taking a quick sip of coffee to cover your disappointment. Toriel continues, “You did not do any deliberate magic, correct?”

“No, I guess it was an accident.”

Toriel chuckles. “That is not what I meant, dear. Did you enact any rituals, draw power from anything, speak any potent phrases?”

“Nnnoooo…” You draw out the syllable, giving Toriel a flat look. _Is she serious?_ Deciding the goat-woman isn’t kidding, you add, “I’m pretty sure that stuff doesn’t work. Have you… are you learning about ‘human magic’ from movies?”

Toriel looks startled for a moment, and then throws her head back and laughs that warm, free laugh of hers. “Oh, I am really very sure that stuff _does_ work, my child!” she chortles when her laughing fit has passed. “Human magic was a widespread discipline when I was a young lady.” Her brown eyes sparkle kindly at you. “I suppose the practice really _has_ vanished,” she adds a bit sadly, staring into her coffee as if watching the past unfold in its depths.

You watch Toriel, wondering. “You mean… your majesty, how old are you, really?” you ask finally, quietly, as if by lowering your volume you can make the question less potentially insulting. You know the stories, of course. Everyone knows the stories, now. The monsters, living under the earth for millennia, brought back with them the expectation that humankind would remember them. That hadn’t been the case. And when the monsters pointed human scholars towards certain records of ancient history, the most reliable translations of the few available broken stone tablets and crumbling sheepskin parchments all seemed to agree that “monster” meant “enemy” or “stranger” and that “magic” was just a way of explaining that the ancient scribes couldn’t explain something. So far removed was modern man from his ancient roots that he’d simply forgotten that some of these things were meant literally.

“I am _very_ old,” Toriel answers good-naturedly, “As old as my tongue and a bit older than my teeth, and I remember a time when human magic could carve mountains in twain and make the rivers flow backward. It was a costly thing, though, and in many cases a high price was paid for a high yield.” You’re fascinated, so wrapped up in what you’re hearing that you’ve temporarily forgotten you exist. Toriel seems to take your wide eyes and held breath as encouragement, and when she continues, her melodic voice has picked up a certain cadence, almost like that of a storyteller, or maybe a teacher. “For monsters, magic is an extension of the soul, just like our bodies. Our magic comes from inside ourselves. It uses our own bodies’ energy as fuel and is shaped to a great extent by who we are. As such, each monster has magic that is unique to them and which is inevitably greatly limited in form. Well…” Toriel chuckles. “Some forms are more widely applicable than others.” She grins at you, a touch of mischief and pride entering her expression. “My specialty is fire.” And she holds out a furry palm, cupping a small flame that seems to spring out of nowhere. You gasp in wonder. Toriel chuckles and the flame flickers out. “I use it for baking,” she informs you cheerfully.

“Can _I_ do that?” You have to ask it, but a moment later you cringe a bit, feeling foolish.

“You certainly could, if you knew the right spell,” Toriel tells you. “For humans, whose bodies are made mainly of physical substances, there is little magical energy to draw on. Instead, they somehow developed a system of rules and practices that allowed trained human mages to draw magic from their environment, and to shape it in any one of hundreds of ways, depending on the force and direction of the mage’s will. Having a high level of determination is very important,” she adds, and again you’re reminded of a teacher. “Unfortunately, I did not begin my studies into the nature of magic until after the Barrier was erected, and so I was unable to add the finer details of human magical practices to my store of knowledge.” Toriel takes a moment to just look at you, and then asks, “You have never healed anyone before?”

“No,” you tell her. “Not with magic, anyway. But it _was_ magic?” you ask, just to be sure.

“I am certain of it,” the queen replies, “But without an associated ritual, I must admit this magic is of a kind I’ve never seen.” She rubs her chin thoughtfully. “It seems more similar to monster magic than human. Firstly, you passed out afterwards, likely due to using too much of your own energy. Therefore, we can conclude that you did not draw the energy you needed from your surroundings, but used what you had inside yourself, just as a monster would. Secondly, it looks to have been instinctive, suggesting it is a part of you, as our own magic is a part of us. You had no teacher, correct?”

“No, I mean, yes, I had no teacher.” The phrasing of the question throws you off, and you fumble with your grammar for a moment.

“So it came to you naturally,” Toriel muses. “You just willed Sans to be healed, and it happened?”

“Uh, actually,” you admit, “I didn’t ‘will’ anything. Not that I’m aware of. I was… uhh…” You glance at Sans, who’s watching the conversation with interest, beneath which is a barely-concealed well of worry. Poor Sans; despite his casual attitude, you’ve noticed he finds a lot of things cause for alarm. Stopped clocks, starless nights, surprises, all these things seem to upset him. He tries to hide it, but you know him well enough now to recognize an internal state of deep anxiety when you see it. The vibes coming off the small skeleton suggest he’d prefer to be hovering around you in case you randomly fall out of your chair or… or something.

“Yes?” Toriel prods gently.

You clear your throat and duck your head, uncomfortable admitting this, but unwilling to conceal anything that might shed some light on your situation. “I was… upset,” you say, voice almost a whisper. “Sans doesn’t share things with me and…” You glance up at Sans for a moment, just long enough to meet his eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, but can’t find the words for it. You continue, “It just felt like I was reaching for him, as hard as I could.” You feel a heaviness against your arm and look down to see that Sans has reached over and gripped the sleeve of your sleep shirt between his forefinger and thumb. You draw your sleeve out of his grasp and replace it with your hand, twining your fingers with his.

“AWWW!” Papyrus exclaims joyfully, practically sparkling with happiness, and grabs Sans’s other hand. Sans’s grip on you tightens slightly as he ducks his head, dissolving into near-silent snickers. Toriel, however, looks deep in thought.

“Without a clear intention, I suppose it is possible… but I’ve never…” Toriel’s eyes are flickering back and forth, not really seeing anything in front of her. You’re impressed: she’s clearly both devoted to her studies and skilled at analyzing information. You feel suddenly, strangely intimidated by her intensity. “You may have been sending energy into Sans directly,” Toriel finally says. “It _is_ possible. Manipulating energy in its purest form _is_ something humans can do. With a fresh influx of undifferentiated magic, his body could have completed the healing it was not able to perform on its own. But in using only what was available inside yourself, without an outside source of magic…” Toriel’s face scrunches suddenly, giving an expression that’s almost fearful. “_____, that was very dangerous! Please be aware, if this happens again, that if you do not control your energy output, you could very well kill yourself.”

Sans’s hand tightens on yours again briefly, and when you turn to look at him, he’s staring at you with dark eye sockets and mouth squeezed into a thin line.

You cycle rapidly through feelings of fear, excitement, curiosity, worry, and eventually, overwhelmed, you opt for indignation. “Hey, it was an accident! I don’t even know how it happened. How do you propose I control it?”

Toriel ignores your little outburst like the queen she is, and scratches her cheek thoughtfully before she says, “I suppose, because this seems to have been instinctive, you will need to consult your instincts.”

You huff and cross your arms, glaring down at the table as you struggle to imagine how your instincts might tell you you’re about to die. When you glance up, Toriel is smiling at you sympathetically.

“My child, it is not so very urgent for you to master this. I am sorry if I implied you were in immediate danger. It is true that the possibility exists that you could harm yourself, but this gift seems to have manifested in a time of need and may not reappear until it is once more necessary. In addition, in all likelihood you will only pass out again if you miss your cue to stop.”

“why did this happen?” Sans asks suddenly. “it’s not just that checkers willed herself… closer to me…” He fumbles his phrasing a bit and blushes, but continues doggedly, turning to you. “you’re as surprised by this as we are, aren’t you? that means it’s definitely not something humans are known to do.” He stops, seemingly distracted by a thought, and instead of continuing his contribution to the conversation, his gaze seems to turn inward. He gets that vague, abstracted look on his face you’ve come to consider his “loading screen” look. Toriel scrutinizes him curiously (is she not familiar with this expression?) and Papyrus rolls his eyes in seeming annoyance, but you’re suddenly on the edge of your seat. When Sans devotes all his brainpower to something, you’ve come to expect brilliance.

“there is… something…” he says finally, slowly, as if the thoughts are crystallizing in his mind as he speaks them. “humans in groups…” He glances at you, then quickly averts his eyes. “sorry if this sounds… racist, or whatever, but… a lot of times, humans in groups all start to feel the same way.”

You blink and think about that for a second. It’s true. In fact, it’s so pervasively true that you’ve never stopped to think about it. When someone gets angry at you, you get angry at them. When you’re in a group of happy people, you feel happy, too. A little chill runs down your spine as you realize that, when you’ve forgotten the words to a song, if Roxy starts singing it, you can just open your mouth and sing along without the words even passing through your brain first.

Toriel and Papyrus are looking at you, as if expecting confirmation or denial. “I guess… I guess that’s true,” you tell them. “I never really thought about it. Don’t you guys get sad when you’re around sad people, or happy when you’re around happy people?”

“YES, BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT THEM AND AM PLEASED THEY ARE JOYOUS,” Papyrus shouts. “OR WORRIED BECAUSE THEY ARE SAD.”

“But have you ever, I don’t know, gone to a party just for that happy party atmosphere?” You’re halfway hoping one of the monsters in your kitchen will acknowledge that they have: it’s been months since you’ve been so forcibly reminded that they’re not human.

“I GO TO PARTIES TO HAVE FUN AND DRINK ALCOHOL AND SPEND TIME WITH MY FRIENDS,” Papyrus offers, looking at you a little uncertainly. And Sans… Sans is staring at you like he’s never seen you before. You shrink into yourself a little.

“so it’s… it’s true, then?” the small skeleton asks. “humans can really feel each other’s feelings?”

“It’s more like an echo,” you reply. “I think it’s kinda like, I don’t know, like a signal bouncing around between people? It’s not like we’re actually sharing each other’s feelings. It’s more like our own feelings just… respond to each other by synchronizing, or something?”

“Synchronizing. That is an interesting word choice,” Toriel muses. You look at her, wondering what she means, and when she catches your eye, she elaborates, “It is interesting because that is exactly what you did with Sans this morning.”

Papyrus is bouncing excitedly in his seat, and it’s less of a surprise and more an inevitability when he finally exclaims, “OH, OH! DO ME, DO ME!”

“Uh…” You’re not sure about this. You glance at Toriel, who smiles and nods at you.

“By all means, dear, please make the attempt. Whatever the result, we may learn something from it.”

You get up and move to Papyrus’s side of the table. As soon as you reach him, the gangly skeleton shouts, “HUGS!” and pulls you into one. You laugh a little as all the stress of the conversation begins to trickle away.

“ARE YOU DOING IT? IS IT WORKING?” Papyrus jiggles you a little bit, as if to shake the magic out of you.

You laugh some more. “Give me a minute, big guy,” you tell him, and reach for that feeling you experienced earlier. With Sans, once the connection was made, your “river” of energy was very easy to access. With Papyrus, it takes you much longer to detect that flowing sensation, and the stream is weak and sluggish. “It’s sort of working,” you inform the room at large. “Not very well.”

“HOLD ON, LET ME TRY SOMETHING,” Papyrus says, and then releases you from his hold and bangs his head on the table. “OW!”

“paps!”

“Oh, my dear!”

“What are you doing?” you snap, putting your hand to his forehead, checking for damage. There’s a little swelling, but as you touch him, the trickle of energy returns, stronger than before, and Papyrus grabs his face in delight.

“IT TINGLES! IT’S WORKING, IT’S WORKING!”

“don’t do that again,” Sans sighs, rubbing his face as if he can wipe away his distress.

“Are you sure you’re not imagining it, my child?” Toriel asks Papyrus, but you’re the one that responds, shaking your head.

“He started to get a bump, but the swelling’s going down now.”

Papyrus glances around the table, clearly waiting for something, and then says, “OOOH! AHHH!” when Sans and Toriel fail to produce their own noises of awe and wonder. The kitchen erupts in laughter.

“jeez, paps, you scared the everlivin’ shit outta me…” Sans is holding his chest like he’s willing away a heart attack. His laughter is wheezy and weak. You know how he hates surprises, and Papyrus hurting himself on top of that, combined with the stress the small skeleton has been visibly suffering since you woke, seems to have flipped an emotional switch. Sans leans over until his forehead rests on the table, wheezing out that sorry excuse for a laugh, and you catch his eye-lights winking out just before he closes his sockets.

Your smile falls. _Not now,_ you think. _We need him right now._ And you release Papyrus and glom onto Sans.

Immediately, his head pops up, pupils flickering back into existence as he looks at you, eyes wide. You meet his gaze for an instant, and then squeeze him tightly, resting your chin on his bony shoulder. “Thought you could use a hug, too,” you whisper in his ear-hole. After an achingly long second, his arms come up and he hugs you back. He sighs deeply, and you note that you’re sending energy into him again. It’s not as much as when he was bleeding, but that now-familiar flow is faster and stronger than it was with Papyrus.

Sans pulls away after a couple moments and gives you that familiar, lazy grin. “damn, girl, you give a good hug.” You laugh and Sans gestures to you while speaking to Toriel: “she just did it again.” He still doesn’t look entirely well, but you think a full-blown depressive episode has been averted. You can’t tell whether that’s due to the energy “donation” or to getting the right hug at the right time. Or maybe his interest in the topic just needed to be re-piqued. You shrug and kiss him on top of the skull as you straighten to go back to your seat. Sans rubs his face again and gets up to make a second pot of coffee. He’s facing the counter, but you can see that the back of his neck is bright red.

“Well,” Toriel says cheerfully, “This has certainly been a very interesting morning.” Her glance toward you contains a bit of mischief, and you fear she’s seen right through you and sussed your feelings for Sans. You fight not to cringe. But instead of commenting, the Queen of Monsters merely continues, “May we wrap it up with one more test?” You nod, and Toriel stretches a massive, furry paw out to you. “Could you try to share energy with me?”

You take Toriel’s paw-like hand and reach for her with your emotions. Nothing happens. You blink in surprise. “Hold on a second,” you tell her, and try harder. Nothing continues to happen. You frown.

“Is something wrong, my child?” Toriel inquires.

“Maybe we need to be hugging?” you wonder, and look at the queen for approval. Toriel smiles warmly, nods, and opens her arms for you. You get up to hug her, noting absently that she’s as tall as Papyrus, and you can easily embrace her without bending over, even while she’s sitting down.

The hug isn’t working either.

“I don’t believe it’s working,” Toriel echoes your thoughts, sounding a bit disappointed. “Perhaps you have used up all your energy for now?” But you don’t think that’s it. Then, something occurs to you: that it’s much more likely you’ll mirror an emotion if the person you’re interacting with is a friend.

You remember the first time you met Toriel, at the housewarming party. You think about how kind she was to approach a stranger, how she saw immediately that you were ill-at-ease and took steps to make you feel at home. You think about the Christmas party next, her silly pun exchanges with Sans, her awareness of your jealous feelings. _“I would very much like for us to be friends,”_ she’d said, and you’d realized you felt the same way. When you acknowledge your small, secret, almost-ashamed wish that Toriel could be your mother, you feel it: a small trickle of energy, flowing from you and straight into her. It’s not very strong and it’s not very fast, but it’s there.

“Oh!” Toriel exclaims happily. “It appears to be working!” She pulls slightly away from you and gives you a pleased smile. “I feel a bit more energetic. Perhaps I can turn this into a new enthusiasm for the peace talks.” Her smile droops a bit, her eyes filling with weariness as she mentions the topic. “… Or perhaps I should just use it to redecorate the living room,” she finishes. You give her another hug for good measure. It looks like she’s under more strain than you’d thought. You feel a small stab of guilt for not keeping abreast of current events, especially since they’re sure to affect the people you care about.

“So, conclusions?” you ask, returning to your seat.

“it took more time with paps, and almost didn’t work at all with tori,” Sans notes at once.

“I think it might have to do partly with how well I know the person, and partly how much they need a boost,” you offer. “I had to think about my relationship with Toriel before I could connect with her, and when Papyrus hurt himself, it increased the flow between us.”

“that would also explain why we haven’t noticed anything ‘till now.” Sans comes around with a fresh pot of coffee, giving everyone a warm-up. “even when she was transferring energy full-blast, it was so subtle i almost missed it. and now we’re only aware of it ‘cause we’re watching for it.”

“Speaking of subtle,” Toriel muses, “You haven’t noticed, have you? The fact that you’re doing more than usual?”

“doing…?” Sans looks down at the coffeepot in his hand.

Papyrus chimes in with, “YES, I SEE IT NOW, TOO! BROTHER, YOU ARE NORMALLY SLIGHTLY LAZIER THAN THIS!”

“not a compliment, paps,” Sans mutters absently, thoughts clearly turned inward. Finally, “guess i do feel a little less… blah.” But he sits down all the same. You suppose the influence of a bit of shared energy only goes so far.

“I believe we’re done for the day,” Toriel says, “Unless anyone can think of another angle to test this from.” When you and the skeleton brothers only shake your heads, the queen continues, “Now, _____, I ask that you try to be aware of this ability, and whether future uses of it conflict with or corroborate our findings here today, please let me know.” She smiles. “I am never too busy to learn more about magic!” Then she stands, and Sans stands with her, clearly intending to ‘port her home, or possibly to the embassy. As the small skeleton wraps an arm around Toriel’s waist, the monster queen turns to you one last time. “We still need to know if this is an ability unique to you, or if it is shared by other humans. Sans has indicated it may be ubiquitous, so perhaps you could keep your senses alert and see if other humans exhibit signs of it?”

You nod. “I’ll do that.”

“I look forward to hearing what you discover!” Toriel adds cheerfully, and waves goodbye to you and Papyrus as Sans pulls her into the void. You glance at Papyrus, who grins at you excitedly. You smile back at him, thinking about “human magic,” wondering where to take the investigation from here. The natural next step… what would it be? In asking the question, you realize the answer, and a wide grin spreads across your face. Sans pops back into the kitchen a moment later. He heads for the coffeepot, but you grip his shoulder as he passes, drawing his attention to you.

“I’m not working today, you know?”

“oh yeah?” His brow ridges rise in interest. He’s got some idea of where you’re going with this, you can tell.

You grin at him and say, “Wanna go see Roxy?”

* * * * *

Roxy’s kitchen is on fire.

You and Sans stand in the center of a maelstrom of human activity, gawking like a couple of slack-jawed idiots, as Jude rushes past with a dishtowel and proceeds to flap uselessly at the flaming stove. Beth is screaming, “Put it out! Put it out! Put it out! Put it out!” Dave is actually, legitimately crying. Grandma Marge leans over and lights a cigarette on a stray splatter of flaming oil that somehow made it all the way to the table.

“Hiya, Honeychild! Hey, Monster-Man!” she singsongs cheerily.

You throw your arms in the air and shout, “WHAT IS THIS FIASCO?!” Your volume would do Papyrus proud.

“Dave made burgers!” Roxy shouts back, struggling to be heard over the noise of a kitchen in chaos.

“put a lid on it,” Sans says, and suits action to words, grabbing a large serving platter and dropping it on top of the blazing frying pan that seems to be the source of the trouble. Jude smacks a weak flame on the countertop with his dishtowel. It explodes into several smaller flames.

“Baking soda!” you shout, expelling excess energy by flailing your arms and thus preventing yourself from panicking by the barest of margins. “Baking soda! Baking soda!”

Jude reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a yellow box, then rushes around the room pouring small piles of white powder on each stray flame, snuffing them out one by one. Within a minute, the ruckus has died down as the family and at least one traumatized visitor breathe a collective sigh of relief. Sans cocks a smile at you and rubs your back comfortingly.

Dave sniffles and rubs his nose with the sleeve of his sweater.

“Ass,” Beth says, and smacks him on the back of the head.

“Buck up, squirt,” Jude adds, crushing the boy in a one-armed hug. The other hand rumples Dave’s hair. “We’re all still alive.”

“Aunngh,” Dave moans, and sobs a little.

Roxy chirps, “Besides, Mom and Dad will blame Gram, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

Grandma Marge scoffs. “Nothing, she calls it.” She takes a drag on her cigarette and grins. “Don’t take it so hard, sonny. Better to try and fail than never try, hey?”

“I burned down the kitchen!” Dave’s recovering from his crying fit, and his voice is weak and watery. Beth attacks a crescent-shaped scorch mark on the counter with a Sharpie, turning it into a lopsided smiley-face. She punches Dave in the arm and directs his attention to her “art,” smiling brightly. You can’t help but notice, with all the recent talk of “human magic,” that the family’s calm good humor is really helping to bring Dave back to earth.

Roxy pats you on the back, mirroring Sans on your other side. “What’s another scorch mark or two?”

You laugh, wrapping an arm around your friend’s shoulders. “Did any burgers survive?”

Roxy shrugs, disappointed. “Doubt it.”

“Pizza,” Marge decides, still grinning. “Pizza’ll fix it.” There’s a small cheer from the others, including Dave, as Marge grabs the house phone from its cradle and starts punching buttons.

“So,” you start. “Sans and I actually came to… ask you some questions, I guess?”

“Oh! Sure!” Roxy pauses and looks around. “Let’s talk in my room. Cleanup’s about to happen, and we don’t want to get drafted.”

* * * * *

It only takes about an hour of conversation for you and Sans to find out what you came to discover. Yes, Roxy can transfer energy, too. The two of you can even send it to each other, but neither of you were able to discern any noticeable effect (other than the sensation of “flow”).

The three of you are sitting on the carpet in the bedroom Roxy shares with her younger sister Beth. Roxy passes around a bag of M&Ms for the third time. You and Sans each take a handful and munch thoughtfully.

“It’s strange,” you note. “Humans have this ability that monsters don’t, but it seems like monsters are the ones that can receive the most benefit from it.”

“i’ve been thinking the same thing,” Sans responds, surprising you slightly. He seems to be taking the thought seriously, though you just meant it as a point of curiosity. “it’s like… i dunno, it would just be the perfect symbiotic relationship, don’tcha think?”

You cock an eyebrow at Sans skeptically, not because he’s wrong, but because… “There’s something really weird about thinking of our relationship as ‘symbiotic.’”

“there’s something else,” Sans adds. “did you notice that some of the folks downstairs deliberately kept their cool…” You groan at the pun. Sans continues, “and helped the kid calm down?”

“Grandma did that!” Roxy says excitedly. “…Though she may have actually been having fun.”

You chuckle a little, but don’t allow yourself to digress from the topic at hand. “It’s like they… we… know what to do, even if we’re not really aware of why it works.”

Sans lifts his chin slightly in a brief nod. “that’s typically the way it happens with monster kids, too. in the beginning, they just use their magic without thinking about it. understanding comes later.”

“I can’t believe we forgot about our own magic.” Roxy scrunches her face up.

“I can’t believe you still make that face when you’re thinking.” You pop another M&M in your mouth.

“I can’t believe Valentine’s Day is right around the corner and we’re not talking about boys,” Roxy shoots back. Her gaze flickers over Sans and she smirks at you. You nearly choke on your M&M. Sans pats you on the back as you catch your breath.

“we’re not together,” he tells Roxy plainly, a hint of an aggravated whine in his voice. “why does everyone think we’re together?”

Roxy shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know.” She looks at the two of you, and you’re afraid she’s going to start calling attention to all the little things you do around the skeleton that, you’re certain, make your feelings painfully, ridiculously obvious to someone who knows you as well as Roxy does. But what your friend follows up with is, “I just think you guys would be really cute together.”

Somehow, that’s almost worse. You blush and pelt her with M&Ms. _“Cute together?_ What does that even mean?”

“i suggest bear outfits for maximum cuteness.” Sans sounds as calm as always, and when you look at him, he’s smirking. But then his eyes meet yours, and you find you’re so embarrassed that you tear your gaze away from his and study the wall.

_Thanks a lot, Rox. Now it’s impossible not to imagine him as my boyfriend._

At that moment, Jude pokes his head into the room. “Pizza’s here!” he singsongs, and the delicious smell of hot pepperoni and extra cheese wafts into the room. The scent is faint, but Roxy’s reaction is immediate. She shoots up off the carpet, eyes wide. You expect her to charge down the stairs and make a beeline straight for the pizza, but instead she claps her hand to her mouth, shoves her brother out of the way, and races for the bathroom.

You and Sans share a bewildered glance, and then Sans asks Jude, “what was that all about?”

Jude shrugs, looking a little worried. “Dunno. We think she’s probably got a flu or something.” The statement suggests this isn’t an isolated incident, so you can’t blame it on your experiments. After a moment, though, you feel something, and you grab Sans by the arm.

“Sans, I feel a little queasy.”

Sans looks at you curiously. “you think maybe…” He indicates the path Roxy fled down with a tilt of his head.

“Maybe,” you agree. “If my energy’s in Roxy and hers is in me, maybe we can sort of feel each other? At least, right now.” You realize that, since people clearly do this “human magic” all the time without realizing it, any effects of it are unlikely to be permanent. Otherwise, people would have noticed the changes in themselves and each other. You “reach” for Roxy, curious, and the queasiness intensifies. “Poor Roxy,” you say sadly. The smell of pizza, so appetizing before, is doing something absolutely awful to you now. After a few moments, the feeling dies down again.

“Energy…?” Jude looks from you to Sans. His eyes dart down to your hand on the skeleton’s arm, and for a moment, some emotion flashes across his face, too quickly for you to make out. He frowns briefly, and then shrugs and says, “Well, get it while it’s hot,” and vanishes down the stairs.

Sans frowns after him. “think he’s upset about somethin’?” You shrug. You’ve known Jude since you were little, but you can’t say you’ve ever been terribly close to him. He’s five years older than you, after all, and when you’re a kid, the difference between age twelve and age seventeen is so enormous the two of you might as well have been different species. Now your two ages don’t seem so far apart, but you still view him more as the cool older brother than as a friend in his own right.

“I’m not confident in my Jude-sussing abilities,” you tell Sans, and give his arm a tug. “Come on, let’s get some pizza.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**
> 
> Likely social-evolutionary causes deliberately ignored for the sake of inventing intrinsic human magic.
> 
> Guys, I know I’ve been pretty absent recently, but I’ve added a couple of tools to my writing arsenal that will, I hope, get me back on track: a wall calendar and some star stickers. :P When I write for half an hour, I get a star on my calendar. Makes me feel like a champ.
> 
> I also made an AMV for the first time in over a year! [Check it out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVzav8mHoAs) if you want! :D


	29. Just Like Mary Poppins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which strawberry purée is contagious.

_Sans_

Valentine’s Day, huh?

The feast day of some saint who was apparently decapitated, and now a holiday dedicated to love and candy. At least, I think that’s what this is all about. Haven’t had much time to research it, on account of researching something else instead. My little Valentine’s project might not seem like much to some people, but the fact that I’m off my ass and _doing_ something might at least tell Checkers and Paps that I care about them, and that’s what this is all about, right?

I’ve been thinking for a while now about what to do for Valentine’s Day. Paps is easy: he’s all about presents and he pretty much likes everything. But Checkers… of course I wanted to give Checkers something amazing; she deserves amazing, and I kinda feel like I need to impress her, I guess? But if I do that, the jig is up. She’ll figure out how I feel about her. Can’t let that happen. There’s no kind of future for me an’ Checkers as a couple, and no take-backsies if I change things. We’d never be the same as we are now, and that… of all things… I don’t think my soul could take it if I lost what we have. It might dust me. Honest to god.

On the other hand, I can’t just give Checkers a bag of chips and a card. Might be better for everyone if I did, but she’s the best thing in my life aside from Paps and I just can’t bring myself to blow her off like that. Besides, if there are some things an apology can’t fix, a bag of Valentine’s popato chisps is probably one of ‘em.

Pull her close, push her away. I’ve been struggling so long to find a perfect balance point on this frickin’ high wire that I’m starting to feel like maybe it’s not even worth it. Maybe I should take a swan dive off one side or the other and to hell with the consequences.

But… no. There’s still some goddamn life left in me and if anything kills me, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be Valentine’s Day.

I already hate this holiday with a passion and I haven’t even celebrated it yet.

It’s a fine line I’ve been walking, looking for something I can cram maximum affection into without it spilling over into overblown weirdness. Finally, I made the decision to use Paps as an intrinsic modifier: I’d give them both the same thing. I figured, if it’s not weird for Paps, it won’t be weird for Checkers.

And then I decided to bake cookies.

This shows that even the most carefully-thought-out decisions can be freaking disasters.

“why’s it so runny? i followed the fucking directions!” The strawberry frosting which sounded so simple online dribbles from the whisk like milk. The cookies are about done, but until I take them out of the oven, there’s no telling how they turned out. The kitchen looks like it used to back when Paps would cook using the Undyne Method. And I still have no idea what “cut into” means in this context.

The oven timer dings, and I open the stove to check the cookies.

Oh, hell. I might cry.

They’re not supposed to be so… _puffy._

And by puffy, I mean they look like little deformed cakes. I mean, they’re supposed to be shortcake-y, but this is… this is…

“The Quasimodo Cookie,” I grump, plucking one of the lumpy, round-topped objects off the tray to try it. It’s hot. I drop it on the counter and blow on my fingers.

It bounces.

Surely that shouldn’t fucking happen.

I groan a groan of utter despair and thump my head on the counter. Then I listlessly flick the oven off so I don’t burn down the house, too.

Ultimately, what was supposed to be a two-hour project (and that was me giving myself extra time) has taken over four hours, Checkers will be home any minute with Paps probably hot on her heels, and I don’t know whether I should try to fix the frosting at this stage or do what I can to clean up the kitchen.

I almost never get angry. I’m more the one-eyebrow-twitch-and-get-over-it type of guy. So I haven’t been this frustrated in a really, _really_ long time.

The disappointment, on the other hand, is a familiar friend.

I sigh and get a damp rag, starting dejectedly to wipe off the counter. I’m muttering to myself as I do it, and that fact annoys me, too.

“goddammit, sans, you’re such a dingus. you’ve never baked before! what in the world were you thinking? ‘it’s chemistry, isn’t it? it’s just chemistry!’ haha, that’s what _you_ think! cookies fly in the face of science! why didn’t you have a back-up plan? goddammit, sans!” In my distraction, I knock over the bowl containing the leftover strawberry purée. There’s a lot of it. Using the blender was way more fun than it should have been.

The bright red slurry hits the floor, splattering the table and the under-counter cabinets, and that’s when I hear the front door click open. I give up the ghost and decide to make the best of a bad situation.

I sprawl face-down in the purée.

Checkers’ light footsteps tap towards the kitchen. “Sans? What smells so _oh my god, he’s DEAD!!!”_ Her voice suddenly bubbles with laughter, which comes rushing out in gales at the end of the exclamation. I peek at her surreptitiously from my spot in the pool of red goop. She’s laughing so hard she has to hold onto the edge of the table. Finally, she slips to the floor beside me.

She’s in the strawberry mess and has probably ruined her jeans. I look up at her, grinning to hide my distress. Her laughter fades. “Your eyes,” she says gently. “Are you okay?”

Aah, shit. Stupid fickle pupils.

I sigh and drop my head back to the floor. Checkers pets my skull. I sigh again, a bigger one this time.

“i made cookies,” I tell her dejectedly. “happy valentine’s day.” I raise my arm slightly, pointing to the oven.

Before she even goes to look at them, Checkers grabs me by the shoulders and pushes at me until I’m sitting up. She’s smiling, and she actually looks genuinely happy. “You put a lot of work into this, huh? Thank you, Sans.” Making her laugh, seeing her smile like this… well, at least the day hasn’t been a complete waste. Checkers leans over and gives me a hug, completely ignoring the sticky mess I’ve made of myself, nuzzling her face into the space at the side of my neck. I can feel her breath, warm on my bones. Then she vibrates with poorly-suppressed mirth, and I pull back to smile wryly at her.

“Oh, god,” she says, giggling. “I never want to forget coming home to that… that _murder scene!”_

I snicker with her, just two friends laughing on the floor, sticky with strawberry goop, and for a moment I forget I’ve blown everything and the day is an utter disaster.

Then Paps comes home.

“SANS? WHAT SMELLS SO _OH MY STARS, WHAT IS THIS UTTER DISASTER?!”_

“hey, paps,” I mumble. “how was the work party?”

“IT WAS LOVELY! WE HAD CAKE! AND SEVERAL CUSTOMERS! WHO ALSO HAD CAKE!” Paps pauses, ruminating. “INDEED, WE ARE VERY LUCKY THERE WAS ENOUGH CAKE TO GO AROUND!”

“you all pastried out, or d’you want some cookies?”

“COOKIES?” Intrigued, Paps strides through the kitchen (it takes his long legs about two steps to get to the other side) and opens the oven door. “OOOH, THEY SMELL SO GOOD!” His smile is threatening to engulf his face.

“…really?” I can’t quite believe it. Why am I the only one here who’s disappointed?

“SANS, YOU SILLY BROTHER, YOU HAVE USED BAKING SODA INSTEAD OF BAKING POWDER.” Papyrus laughs a little, that distinctive “NYEH HEH HEH!” of his cheering me up a bit.

“you can tell that by looking?” I’m impressed. And, immediately afterward, chagrined. “so they’re _not_ the same thing.”

“THEY ARE ALMOST THE SAME THING. YOU WERE ALMOST CORRECT!” Papyrus picks up the cookie on the counter, drops it, and watches it bounce. “YOU HAVE ALSO MIXED THE BATTER TO WITHIN AN INCH OF ITS LIFE.” Papyrus scoops up the cookie again and prepares to bite into it, but then stops. “WAIT! WE MUST PRESENT THE COOKIES PROPERLY BEFORE EATING THEM!” I eye my brother bemusedly. Is he… scolding _himself?_ Heh. Beside me, Checkers giggles and stands, dragging me to my feet as well.

“Wow, what a mess,” she says wryly, brushing ineffectually at her knees. She lifts a sticky hand and scrutinizes it. “Eurgh.”

“yeahhh, turns out baking isn’t as easy as it looks.” I glance at her: she’s watching Papyrus add shavings of cold butter to my runny frosting. Her happy smile in profile sends a sharp stab of emotion straight through me. Can’t tell exactly what it is: seems to be some mixture of love and shame. It hurts, though. Aah, god, Checkers, I wish… Man, I don’t even know what to wish for, what it’s _okay_ to wish for.

_I wish I was someone else._

Paps puts down the stick of butter he’s been using, shakes a little extra powdered sugar into the frosting, and whips out the electric mixer. I jerk my thumb at him, giving Checkers a grin. “he makes it look like a piece of cake.”

Checkers groans and laughs at the same time. Then she nudges my shoulder with hers and says, “We should get changed.”

I look down at our clothes, sporting damp sticky patches and probably stained for good.

“well, i mean, didn’t some saint get killed for this holiday?” Checkers makes a “snrk” noise and bites her lip, trying not to laugh lest she encourage me. “maybe this is appropriate.”

“Get changed or I’ll lick it off,” Checkers threatens, eyes sparkling with mischief. I skedaddle, struggling not to think about Checkers’s parting shot and failing miserably.

That shit just ain’t fair.

I change into a pair of gray sweat pants and a long-sleeved shirt that says “Shirt Happens,” which I find therapeutically appropriate. Then I head for the bathroom to rinse away the last of the stickiness on my face and forearms.

Checkers got there first.

She’s opted to wash up _before_ changing, and I nearly crash into her as she exits the bathroom. I dodge her instinctively, trying to keep my clean clothes from coming into contact with her sticky ones. She dodges in the opposite direction, clumsily, caroms off my shoulder, and _lurches over the edge of the fucking staircase._

Everything slows down, molasses gumming up the gears of the world. She squeaks and her eyes widen, mouth forming a little “o” of surprise. I seize her by the shirt sleeve, aware as I do so that I can’t pull her to safety with it. I hang on anyway, and am subsequently yanked off my feet. I grab for my magic desperately. There’s no time for finesse, no time to adjust to the circumstances. Gravity inverts. I land flat on my back on the ceiling, banging my head so hard I see stars. Checkers lands on top of me with an “Oof!”

Time resumes its normal flow.

Checkers groans. I’m trapped under (over?) her, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other hand still clutching her stretched-out sleeve near her wrist. Her back is pressed into me, her hair in my face, my breath in her ear. We lay like that for a moment, panting as the adrenaline rush fades. Finally I’ve got it together enough to ask, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” she replies shakily. Her hair brushes my face as she moves her head. “Uh… are we on the ceiling? We’re on the ceiling! Sans! _What?!”_ There’s delight in her voice.

I chuckle. She went from scared to thrilled in about 0.2 seconds. I start to release her so we can untangle ourselves, but she grabs onto the arm I’ve got around her waist and squawks, “Don’t drop me!” Oh. Heh heh. I forget sometimes that, if you’re not used to this sort of thing, it can be really disorienting. But, uhh, I’m gonna have to get out of this people-pile soon. Checkers is way too soft, and she’s way too close, and she smells so damn good and I’m basically spooning her and after that minor adventure all my senses are heightened and my body’s responding to the littlest things.

My arm tightens around her.

I didn’t tell it to do that, I swear.

“you won’t fall,” I promise her, and if my voice is rougher than usual, maybe she’ll chalk it up to the aftereffects of almost falling down a freakin’ staircase.

Checkers tenses suddenly, and with us pressed so tightly together, I can feel her heart rate spike. (Oh, man, the things that heartbeat does to me… _Don’t think about that, Sans, you asshole, don’t you dare!_ ) I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when she grabs for my hand. She fretfully strokes the bones of my fingers where they’re lying on her stomach, and her other hand seeks out my opposite wrist, untangling my fingers from her sleeve and exploring my digits and metacarpals intently and thoroughly. Her heart starts to slow as she calms down. “uhh… checkers?” I venture cautiously.

Checkers sighs, and I can feel her forcing herself to relax. “I, um, for a second I felt like…” She laughs a little nervously, and pats the hand I’m holding her with, as if she’s reassuring herself that it’s still there… _or still mine._

I stifle a dismayed sound.

Rob grabbed her from behind, didn’t he?

He might have held her _just like this._

I carefully lift my hand from her stomach. A minute ago, I was enjoying this position waaay too much. Now, I feel like I might throw up if I could. “sorry,” I mutter. I don’t know what else to say. Checkers releases my hands and slowly sits up.

“Sorry for what? Saving my life?” When she turns to smile over her shoulder at me, my feelings of guilt and shame and worry are blasted out of the water by the mischievous sparkle in her eyes, the way her hair swings over her shoulder as she meets my gaze, and the fact that she’s now _sitting in my lap._ Her perfect ass is parked right on my pelvis and _god damn,_ I wish she wouldn’t look at me like that while we’re in this position. Ooooh-kay, the shame is back, here it comes, oh holy shit, _why are shame and lust such a potent combination oh mother of all fuckers…_

I sit up too, which serves a dual purpose: it hides Checkers’s sexy-as-hell smile from me — I’m back to a limited view of her neck and shoulder now — and it shields my nascent shine-on from view, at least temporarily. Of course, now I’m buried in her hair again, and my sternum has gone sensitive in the wake of my arousal so I’m bowing my back awkwardly to try to keep from brushing my chest against her. There’s just no good position for me as long as Checkers stays where she is. She needs to get off me. RIGHT NOW. OFF! _Why does this shit keep happening to me?_

“I’ve seen you do this before…” Checkers mumbles. She looks like she’s thinking hard. _Please, Checkers, get off me._ “When you saved me, that time.” She tries to turn and look at me again, but I hide my burning face from her. _Please get off. Me, I mean. Get off ME._ “This is awesome!” She spreads her arms out, and I just know she’s beaming like a thousand-watt bulb and I’d probably scorch my eyes if I tried to look at her. _Get me off! I mean, get off me! Oh, god, it’s getting worse…_ “Why don’t you do this more often? It’s gotta be useful. And, really, it’s just. SO. COOL.” She pauses in her excited babbling for just a moment. “You know,” she adds, “You’re being awfully quiet.” Finally, finally, Checkers slides out of my lap and I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Then I remember I don’t want her looking at me. Not only am I shining right out in the open where anyone can see it, where _she_ can see it, but I’m also red-faced and kinda sweaty and, oh man, I might even have a pervy look on my face. It would be just my luck.

She turns to look at me (of course she does) and her face twists inquisitively. “Oh my god, are you okay?” Then she leans over and places a hand against my cheekbone. “Shit, I landed on you, didn’t I? Are you hurt?” Oh. Heh. Guess I look like I’m in pain. Which isn’t far from the truth.

I grimace and rub the back of my head, glancing down as I do so. Oh, thank god! Between the black color of my shirt and its thick weave, you can’t really see my… you know. Glow. Well, it shows through a little, but it’s not too noticeable. I might just get through this unscathed. “kinda bumped my head a little,” I tell Checkers. It’s not a lie, but I still feel a bit guilty about it. Why, oh, why is she so fuckin’ hard to lie to? Checkers makes a concerned face and reaches behind my head, her soft fingers probing for damage. I grunt when she hits the sore spot, to lend some credibility to my diversion. Not because it hurts. At all. That would be unmanly. Ow.

“it’s fine.” I catch her wrist and gently pull her hand away from my skull. “don’t poke it, i’m fine, i promise.”

“You saved me again.” Checkers tilts her body towards me, eyes shining, a look on her face that’s half teasing and half affection, and if I didn’t know better I’d swear she was flirting. Wait… _is_ she flirting? If she is… oh, man, that would put this whole interaction in a completely different context. A shiver courses through my body, and I struggle to maintain my expression. _This isn’t… I mean, I can’t be what she wants. She deserves…_ Checkers leans in and places the softest of kisses on my cheekbone. I close my eyes as my whole body thrums a deep note of desire. I turn my face towards her slightly, but she’s already drawing away. Oh, thank god. Who knows what I might have done if she’d stayed close like that?

It takes me a second to find my voice. “well, i knocked you down the stairs, so it’s only fair.”

Checkers thumps me in the arm with her fist. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, just take a compliment, will you?” She settles against my side, grinning at me. “You were amazing. You _are_ amazing.”

I feel an embarrassed grin tugging at my cheeks. I can’t seem to look at her right now, so I stare at my legs instead. Take a compliment? As if I deserve one? I’m not sure I even know how anymore. I had real confidence, once, but that’s all gone now, and in its place are uncertainty, helplessness, and a sort of desperately determined disguise to hide the fact that I’ve long since shattered into tiny shards of my former self. You break, but life keeps going on, and you’re forced to go on with it. How do you deal with that?

I finally raise my eyes and look at Checkers, and she’s staring at me with this expression that says she’s seen right through me again, that she knows the turn my thoughts have taken.

She looks so sad.

Her hand slips into mine, our fingers intertwining. She gives my hand a squeeze, then sighs and leans against my shoulder, sharing her warmth and her presence. And her stickiness, by the way, though I can’t really bring myself to care about that at the moment.

“sorry about the cookies,” I tell her.

“I love the cookies,” she says back, clearly ignoring the fact she hasn’t tried them yet, and tilts her head to look at me. She’s smiling again. “It’s okay. You can take things at your own pace.” Her thumb rubs against mine, an absent-minded but comforting gesture. “I don’t want you to be different. Just happy.”

Something melts inside me, some sort of long-held tension releasing with a strange, icy shiver. I lean over and place a gentle kiss on her forehead, by her hairline. She sighs and snuggles closer. I’m breathing in the smell of her hair, conflicting emotions swirling inside of me and making a melancholy mess of sorrow and joy and desire. My lips brush her skin again, this time by her temple. Her hand tightens on mine, and her face tilts slowly towards me, her eyes fluttering shut. Helplessly, I lean in once more.

Then we’re both startled by an excited shout from below.

“OH, OH, A TEA PARTY ON THE CEILING! JUST LIKE MARY POPPINS!” We look up (down?), and there’s Paps, with a pot of tea in one hand and a plate of weirdly lumpy cookies balanced on the other. He’s somehow managed to tuck several mugs and a couple of small packages securely into the crook of one elbow, and thanks to our relative angles he doesn’t seem aware that he’s interrupted anything. He bounces on his toes like a child expecting to be picked up any second. “BRING ME UP, BRING ME UP!”

Checkers and I jerked away from each other as soon as we heard him, of course. She’s running her hands through her hair, pulling it forward to hide her blush. Second thoughts, or just embarrassment? _Would’ve been nice to have FIRST thoughts, instead of just a mess of feelings._ Maybe I should thank Paps for intervening; the fact that I let things get so out-of-hand so quickly is fuckin’ embarrassing. But Checkers didn’t pull away from me when I leaned in. I almost kissed her, and she didn’t pull away, and because of that, I’m feeling decidedly ungrateful and am honestly struggling with the urge to throw something at Paps’s head. Great. Now I feel like a shitty brother, too.

“watch yourself,” I warn, and with a small shimmer of magic, I twist space around my brother, gently, to keep him from falling too quickly. Paps, an old hand at this, tosses his head back and kicks his feet up, flipping himself in the air. Of course, several cookies slip off the plate and the teapot sloshes a little, but as soon as Paps’s feet hit the ceiling, he waves the serving dish around, catching the runaways with all the aplomb of a professional juggler performing a favorite trick.

Checkers applauds.

Paps takes a bow.

I take the tray of cookies from him, freeing one of his hands. “what’cha got there, bro?” I ask, indicating the prettily-wrapped packages. Like me (and most of the rest of monsterkind, I assume), he’s avoided soul images in his holiday decorating, but being Paps, he’s found a way around this Valentine’s Day dilemma by adding flowers and lace and lots of pink and red and purple to pretty much everything I was too slow to defend. His packages are no exception: they’re small, and most of the bulk they do have is made of crinkly puffs of chiffon and flouncy ribbons.

“THESE ARE FOR YOU!” Paps beams, clearly proud of himself, and hands one of the packages to Checkers.

“Oh, wow, Papyrus,” Checkers breathes, gingerly taking the gift. “It’s so pretty I’m not sure I want to open it.”

“NYEH HEH HEH!” Paps’s pleased cackle brings a fond smile to my face as I take my own package from him. Huh. It’s really light. Is he sure he remembered to put a present in here? “THESE ARE GIFTS FROM THE HEART AND HANDS OF THE GREAT PAPYRUS! THEIR BEAUTY IS SECONDARY TO THEIR GREATER PURPOSE! BUT I AM GLAD YOU LIKE THE WRAPPINGS.”

“Oh, dang, my presents for you guys are…” Checkers cuts herself off, gesturing above her head to the living room floor.

“get ‘em later,” I suggest. “this isn’t really about the presents, anyway, right?”

“TRUE, BUT THE PRESENTS HELP,” Paps says quickly, and then waves his hands at Checkers and me. “OPEN THEM, OPEN THEM!”

It takes me a while to extricate the small box from its prison of ribbons, and when I open it, at first I’m not sure what I’m looking at. “paper?” I tug on a brightly-colored paper ring, and an entire ensemble of paper strips and bits of string slides out of the box with a quiet rustle. Next to me, Checkers is holding one of her own, a little different from mine, and I can see understanding and enthusiasm start to dawn in her eyes.

“YOU HAVE TO GET THE LITTLE RING OFF THE STRING WITHOUT TEARING THE PAPER!” Paps shouts gleefully at Checkers, who’s already busily prodding and twisting at her puzzle, a look of intense concentration on her face.

“nice!” I say, working on my own. “thanks, bro!”

Paps laughs and claps me on the back so hard I nearly tumble into the pile of cookies. “YOU ARE VERY WELCOME, SIBLINGS! I HOPE THEY ARE AS FUN TO SOLVE AS THEY WERE TO MAKE! ALSO DIFFICULT! AND A LITTLE BIT FRUSTRATING! ALTHOUGH I HOPE THEY ARE NOT THAT.” Paps pours us each a mug of tea, and I take a moment to appreciate just how on-top-of-things he always is. He’s always cleaning up my messes, making sure I eat, forcing me out of bed on my bad days… I honestly don’t know what would become of me if my bro wasn’t here.

No, scratch that, I _do_ know what would become of me.

It’s not a pretty picture.

“Sans!” Checkers’s voice pulls me out of my reverie. It’s a startled, sharp utterance and for a moment, I think something terrible has happened. But as I tuck my memories back inside their mental box, the fog clears and I can see that she’s smiling widely, waving half of a strawberry cookie at me. “These are really good!” She takes another bite, humming happily.

“Really?” I pick one up and scrutinize it suspiciously. It still looks awful. Paps has somehow solidified the icing a little, but it’s still kind of drippy, and between that and the lumpy, swollen malformation of the thing, so different from the pretty picture on the internet, I find myself reluctant to try it.

“THEY ARE! THEY ARE DELICIOUS, BROTHER!” Paps demonstrates his ability to fit an entire cookie in his mouth and takes a moment to chew and swallow. “WHO KNEW SUCH CULINARY TALENT RAN IN THE FAMILY? I CERTAINLY DID NOT, ESPECIALLY AFTER THAT QUICHE YOU MADE!”

“hey, that quiche was egg-ceptional.” I take a tentative bite out of the cookie. Huh. What do you know? It _is_ pretty good.

“EGG-CEPTIONALLY EGG-REGIOUS!” Paps cackles at his own pun, and I howl with laughter. Oh, man, that one was awesome! Paps wins the pun war, and we barely even started.

“what’re you talkin’ about? i just egg-stended the cooking time.”

“YOU FELL ASLEEP ON THE COUCH AND ALMOST BURNED THE HOUSE DOWN! I DID NOT ORDER MY QUICHE EGG-STRA-CRISPY!”

I crack up, curling into myself and tilting sideways until I’m leaning against Checkers. She’s laughing as hard as I am, and it takes us a couple seconds to catch our breath.

“So you _have_ baked before?” Checkers asks, face flushed and eyes sparkling.

_“THAT_ WAS _NOT_ BAKING,” Paps says primly, and that sets us off again. “IT CAME FROZEN! IN A BOX!” my bro continues, which makes Checkers laugh harder, and for some reason that makes me laugh harder, too.

Paps, Checkers and I chatter as the tea and cookies dwindle, and I finally start to relax. I’m surprised by the feeling of longing that swells in me as our little tea party continues: I’ve missed this. This… this simple, friendly togetherness, unburdened by worries and unresolved tension. And if I’ve missed it, that must mean I haven’t felt it in a while. The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water: whether I tell Checkers how I feel or keep it a secret, it's affecting our dynamic. I've exchanged comfort for stress and happiness for pain, and I don't know when I did it, but in the end I guess it doesn't matter. What good did it do, keeping this secret from her all this time, if things have changed anyway?

I take a gulp of tea to soothe my suddenly-dry throat, wishing it was coffee but unwilling to leave the Sacred Friendship Circle to brew some.

I’ve done my best to do absolutely nothing, and somehow I still managed to fuck things up.

“Sans!” Checkers says suddenly, and I snap out of my thoughts with a start.

“yeah?”

“Can you let me down for a minute? I have gifts for you guys!” She’s beaming and seems excited. My soul leaps in my chest, giving me mood whiplash. I can’t look at a happy Checkers without being sorta happy myself.

“sure thing,” I tell her, and wave my hand gently. The gravity around Checkers settles lightly into a soft directional pull. As she stands, the motion propels her off the ceiling, towards the floor at the foot of the stairs, and she squeaks as she starts to spin awkwardly in the air. She makes a grab for the second floor railing on her way down, but misses it. I suppress a snicker and kick off to get her.

“here, lemme help.” I grab her ankle as she rotates, giving a little push in the opposite direction. When her top half is facing up again, I grip her upper arms, steadying her. She laughs and places her hands on my forearms lightly.

“We’re floating!” she says joyfully.

“guess it was just a light meal.”

Checkers laughs, looks down at the gradually approaching floor, and kicks her feet in the air. This sends us into a slow spin, and I pull her closer and grip her around the waist, holding her hand with my other arm outstretched, as if we’re twirling in a dance. As our feet touch down, she drapes her arm across my shoulders, leaning into me a little. “You know you’re going to have to do this for me all the time, now, right?”

Something in my nonexistent stomach flutters, and to cover it up, I spin her away from me and give her a gentle push. “if i gotta,” I pretend to gripe. “but only in exchange for presents.” Checkers giggles and saunters away from me, heading for her room. I wait for her, unwilling to watch her repeat her midair tumble without being right there with her to correct it. She comes back in a moment with a couple packages, and I drift us back to the ceiling, guiding her backwards with me so that we’re oriented correctly when our feet touch down. Immediately, Checkers holds out a flat, square parcel to Paps, who cheers when he grabs it. He starts to open it as Checkers passes a larger, squashier parcel to me with a smile that’s slightly shy, and so sweet I’m momentarily speechless.

“I wasn’t sure what to get either of you,” she says. Behind her, Paps gasps in joy as his unwrapping uncovers what looks like a Fluffy Bunny pop-up book. Checkers turns as he opens the first page and some paper bunnies spring out at him. Paps cheers again and jumps up to sweep Checkers into a hug.

“OH, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, SISTER! I NEVER KNEW THAT FLUFFY BUNNY HAD SUCH A DYNAMIC ADVENTURE! TRULY, SMALL RABBITS LEAD VERY EVENTFUL LIVES! … WILL YOU DO THE LADY VOICES WHEN SANS READS TO ME TONIGHT?”

“Sure.” Checkers still has that glowing smile on her face. I catch myself staring at her, petting the package she handed me instead of opening it. I shake myself and tear into the wrapping paper.

It’s a new hoodie, with a galaxy pattern. “heeey!” I exclaim happily, and almost pull it on before I remember I’ve still got strawberry puree on myself. I squeeze it in my hands instead. It looks great, and feels really soft. And it’s covered in stars. I don’t need to be wearing it to feel warm right now. “kinda big for a small holiday, ain’t it?”

“I couldn’t resist when I saw it,” Checkers confides. “I’ve, uh…” She fiddles with her fingers. “I’ve missed the blue one. Thought maybe you might miss it, too.”

I find myself smiling, petting the thick, soft material. My torn and bloodstained blue hoodie was comfy, yeah, but really it was just a jacket. This one? This one’s special. “thanks, checkers.” My voice comes out hushed. I clear my throat and try again. “happy valentine’s day.”

“To you, too,” she says, and suddenly, she blushes and looks away. Then she looks back to me, reaches out, and takes one of my hands in hers. My fingers slide between hers of their own accord, as if they belong there, as if they’re coming home.

Then Paps catches the both of us up in an enormous hug. Checkers laughs, her chest heaving against mine as Paps squishes us together. “THE COOKIES ARE GONE AND IT IS DARK OUTSIDE AND MOST IMPORTANTLY I HAVE A NEW FLUFFY BUNNY ADVENTURE! THAT MEANS IT IS TIME FOR BED!” I suppress a groan, dropping my forehead against Checkers’s. She looks at me from centimeters away, eyes sparkling with humor. “OH, FIDDLESTICKS,” my brother says then, and Checkers and I look up curiously. “NOW I AM STICKY, TOO.” Checkers snorts a laugh. I join her for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
>  
> 
> **~ Author’s Note ~**  
> 
> 
> [The hoodie.](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0385/6229/products/beloved-lush-galaxy-unisex-zip-up-hoodie-19003485393_1024x1024.jpg?v=1533893251)
> 
> [A similar puzzle to the ones Papyrus made.](http://www.archimedes-lab.org/workshopgambso.html)
> 
> Very little is known about St. Valentine, and some of the traditional stories conflict with each other in places. Since he was a very early historical figure and not a political leader, we’ve got to expect that sort of ambiguity. But we do know that he was a bishop in Rome or the surrounding area who performed illegal marriages for Christian couples and otherwise aided Christians during a time when being Christian was punishable by death under Roman law. He was found out, of course, and eventually executed, but not before he befriended the daughter of his jailer. Stories say he miraculously cured her blindness, and some stories go on to say that, when he was beheaded, he left behind a note for the young lady that was signed, “From your Valentine.”


End file.
